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TENNYSON 


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^rxnri  tAe  JicrtrcuA  jj  tun  ted  AyndanutesP—J^axu~rsice. 


ALFRED  lord  TENNYSON 


A MEMOIR 

By  HIS  SON 


I have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure  ! 


VOLUME  I 


Nefo  got fe  3j$  3 f 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  & CO.,  Ltd. 

1899 


All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1897, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  September,  1897.  Reprinted  October, 
November  twice  1897;  January,  March,  August,  September,  1898 
June,  1899. 


>5 


' 05 
r 


$ 


Norbxujtj  ^rtsa 

J.  S.  Gushing  Jc  Co.  — Berwick  & Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


THESE  VOLUMES  ARE  DEDICATED 


BY  PERMISSION 

TO  THE  QUEEN 


An  Unpublished  Version  of  “To  the  Queen f 1851, 

THE  NOBLEST  MEN  METHINKS  ARE  BRED 
OF  OURS  THE  SAXO-NORMAN  RACE; 

AND  IN  THE  WORLD  THE  NOBLEST  PLACE, 
MADAM,  IS  YOURS,  OUR  QUEEN  AND  HEAD. 

YOUR  NAME  IS  BLOWN  ON  EVERY  WIND, 

YOUR  FLAG  THRO’  AUSTRAL  ICE  IS  BORNE, 
AND  GLIMMERS  TO  THE  NORTHERN  MORN, 
AND  FLOATS  IN  EITHER  GOLDEN  IND. 

I GIVE  THIS  FAULTY  BOOK  TO  YOU, 

FOR,  THO’  THE  FAULTS  BE  THICK  AS  DUST 
IN  VACANT  CHAMBERS,  I CAN  TRUST 
YOUR  WOMAN’S  NATURE  KIND  AND  TRUE. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

Preface xi 

Chronology  of  the  Books  of  Poems  . . . xviii 

I.  Boyhood,  1809-1827 1 

II.  Cambridge,  1828-1830 33 

III.  Cambridge,  Somersby  and  Arthur  Hallam,  1830-31  . 66 

IV.  Arthur  Hallam,  1831-1833 79 

V.  The  1832  Volume.  Solitude  and  Work,  1833-1835  . 116 

VI.  Visits  to  the  Lakes  and  elsewhere.  The  “ Morte 

d’Arthur.”  1836-37 147 

VII.  Extracts  from  Letters  to  Emily  Sellwood,  1838- 

1840 167 

VIII.  London  Life  and  the  1842  Volumes  ....  182 

IX.  Reminiscences  of  Tennyson  (about  1842)  . . . 201 

X.  Letters,  1842-1845  . . . . . . .212 

XI.  Switzerland  1846,  and  Letters  1846-47  . . . 230 

XII.  “The  Princess” 247 

XIII.  Cheltenham,  London,  Cornwall,  Scotland  and  Ire- 

land, 1846-1850 263 

XIV.  “ In  Memoriam  295 

XV.  Marriage,  1850-51 328 

XVI.  Cheltenham  and  Whitby,  1852 347 

XVII.  Twickenham,  1852-53 355 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER  PAGE 


XVIII. 

Farringford,  1853-1855 368 

XIX. 

“ Maud  ” 393 

XX. 

Home  Life  and  “ Idylls  of  the  King,”  1856-1859  . 413 

XXI.  Tour  in  Cornwall  and  the  Scilly  Isles,  i860  . . 458 


XXII. 

Farringford  Friends.  The  Pyrenees.  Death  of 
the  Prince  Consort.  1860-1862  ....  467 

XXIII. 

Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire.  Letters.  1862-1864  . 487 

Appendix 


497 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Alfred  Tennyson,  from  the  Portrait  painted  by  Samuel  Lau- 
rence .........  Frontispiece 

Alfred  Tennyson,  from  a Sketch  by  J.  Spedding,  made  at  Mire- 

house,  April,  1835 146 

Alfred  Tennyson,  from  a Sketch  by  Edward  Fitzgerald,  made  at 

Mirehouse,  1835  . . . . . . . . •I53 

Alfred  Tennyson.  Engraved  by  G.  J.  Stodart  from  a Daguerreo- 
type, 1838 166 

“ Tears,  idle  Tears,”  from  the  original  MS.  ....  246 

“ Break,  break,  break,”  from  an  original  MS 295 

Mrs  Tennyson,  from  the  Portrait  at  Aldworth,  painted  by  G.  F. 

Watts,  R.A.  .........  330 

View  from  Drawing-Room  at  Farringford,  from  a Painting  by 

Richard  Doyle  .........  365 

Hallam  and  Lionel  Tennyson,  from  the  Picture  at  Aldworth 

painted  by  G.  F.  Watts,  R.A 370 

“ Let  not  the  solid  ground,”  from  the  original  MS.  . . . 392 

Farringford,  from  a Water-colour  Drawing  by  Mrs  Allingham  . 412 

Alfred  Tennyson,  from  the  Portrait  in  the  possession  of  Lady 

Henry  Somerset,  painted  by  G.  F.  Watts,  R.A.,  in  1859  . 428 

Alfred  Tennyson,  engraved  by  G.  J.  Stodart  from  a Photograph 

by  O.  G.  Rejlander,  1859 458 


T.  1 


PREFACE. 


Unpublished  Sonnet 

( Written  originally  as  a preface  to  “ Becket ”). 

Old  ghosts  whose  day  was  done  ere  mine  began, 

If  earth  be  seen  from  your  conjectured  heaven, 

Ye  know  that  History  is  half-dream  — ay  even 
The  man’s  life  in  the  letters  of  the  man. 

There  lies  the  letter,  but  it  is  not  he 
As  he  retires  into  himself  and  is : 

Sender  and  sent-to  go  to  make  up  this, 

Their  offspring  of  this  union.  And  on  me 
Frown  not,  old  ghosts,  if  I be  one  of  those 
Who  make  you  utter  things  you  did  not  say, 

And  mould  you  all  awry  and  mar  your  worth; 

For  whatsoever  knows  us  truly,  knows 
That  none  can  truly  write  his  single  day, 

And  none  can  write  it  for  him  upon  earth. 

“History  is  half-dream  — ay  even 
The  man’s  life  in  the  letters  of  the  man 

but  besides  the  letters  of  my  father  and  of  his  friends 
there  are  his  poems,  and  in  these  we  must  look  for  the 
innermost  sanctuary  of  his  being.  For  my  own  part,  I 
feel  strongly  that  no  biographer  could  so  truly  give  him 
as  he  gives  himself  in  his  own  works ; but  this  may  be 
because,  having  lived  my  life  with  him,  I see  him  in  every 
word  which  he  has  written ; and  it  is  difficult  for  me  so 

b 2 


XI 


Xll 


PREFACE. 


far  to  detach  myself  from  the  home  circle  as  to  pourtray 
him  for  others.  There  is  also  the  impossibility  of 
fathoming  a great  man’s  mind ; his  deeper  thoughts  are 
hardly  ever  revealed.  He  himself  disliked  the  notion  of 
a long,  formal  biography,  for 

“ None  can  truly  write  his  single  day, 

And  none  can  write  it  for  him  upon  earth.” 

However  he  wished  that,  if  I deemed  it  better,  the 
incidents  of  his  life  should  be  given  as  shortly  as  might 
be  without  comment,  but  that  my  notes  should  be  final 
and  full  enough  to  preclude  the  chance  of  further  and 
unauthentic  biographies. 

For  those  who  cared  to  know  about  his  literary 
history  he  wrote  “ Merlin  and  the  Gleam.”  From  his 
boyhood  he  had  felt  the  magic  of  Merlin  — that  spirit  of 
poetry  — which  bade  him  know  his  power  and  follow 
throughout  his  work  a pure  and  high  ideal,  with  a 
simple  and  single  devotedness  and  a desire  to  ennoble 
the  life  of  the  world,  and  which  helped  him  through 
doubts  and  difficulties  to  “endure  as  seeing  Him  who  is 
invisible.” 

Great  the  Master, 

And  sweet  the  Magic, 

When  over  the  valley, 

In  early  summers, 

Over  the  mountain, 

On  human  faces, 

And  all  around  me, 

Moving  to  melody, 

Floated  the  Gleam. 

In  his  youth  he  sang  of  the  brook  flowing  through 
his  upland  valley,  of  the  “ ridged  wolds  ” that  rose  above 


PREFACE. 


Xlll 


his  home,  of  the  mountain-glen  and  snowy  summits  of 
his  early  dreams,  and  of  the  beings,  heroes  and  fairies, 
with  which  his  imaginary  world  was  peopled.  Then  was 
heard  the  “ croak  of  the  raven,”  the  harsh  voice  of  those 
who  were  unsympathetic  — 

The  light  retreated, 

The  landskip  darken’d, 

The  melody  deaden’d, 

The  Master  whisper’d 
“ Follow  the  Gleam.” 

Still  the  inward  voice  told  him  not  to  be  faint-hearted 
but  to  follow  his  ideal.  And  by  the  delight  in  his  own 
romantic  fancy,  and  by  the  harmonies  of  nature,  “ the 
warble  of  water,”  and  “ cataract  music  of  falling  torrents,” 
the  inspiration  of  the  poet  was  renewed.  His  Eclogues 
and  English  Idylls  followed,  when  he  sang  the  songs  of 
country  life  and  the  joys  and  griefs  of  country  folk, 
which  he  knew  through  and  through. 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children, 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner, 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 
Of  lowly  labour. 

By  degrees,  having  learnt  somewhat  of  the  real 
philosophy  of  life  and  of  humanity  from  his  own  ex- 
perience, he  rose  to  a melody  “ stronger  and  statelier.” 
He  celebrated  the  glory  of  “ human  love  and  of  human 
heroism  ” and  of  human  thought,  and  began  what  he  had 
already  devised,  his  Epic  of  king  Arthur,  “typifying 
above  all  things  the  life  of  man,”  wherein  he  had  intended 
to  represent  some  of  the  great  religions  of  the  world. 
He  had  purposed  that  this  was  to  be  the  chief  work 


XIV 


PREFACE. 


of  his  manhood.  Yet  the  death  of  his  friend,  Arthur 
Hallam,  and  the  consequent  darkening  of  the  whole 
world  for  him  made  him  almost  fail  in  this  purpose ; nor 
any  longer  for  a while  did  he  rejoice  in  the  splendour  of 
his  spiritual  visions,  nor  in  the  Gleam  that  had  “ waned 
to  a wintry  glimmer.” 

Clouds  and  darkness 
Closed  upon  Camelot; 

Arthur  had  vanish’d 
I knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me, 

And  cannot  die. 

Here  my  father  united  the  two  Arthurs,  the  Arthur 
of  the  Idylls  and  the  Arthur  “ the  man  he  held  as  half 
divine.”  He  himself  had  fought  with  death,  and  had 
come  out  victorious  to  find  “ a stronger  faith  his  own,” 
and  a hope  for  himself,  for  all  those  in  sorrow  and  for 
universal  humankind,  that  never  forsook  him  through  the 
future  years. 

And  broader  and  brighter 
The  Gleam  flying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  thro’  the  world. 

«AA.  ^ sJA.  JA 

rVY'  *7v  *7V'  W •a' 

I saw,  whenever 
In  passing  it  glanced  upon 
Hamlet  or  city, 

That  under  the  Crosses 
The  dead  man’s  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom; 

And  so  to  the  land’s 
Last  limit  I came. 


PREFACE. 


XV 


Up  to  the  end  he  faced  death  with  the  same  earnest 
and  unfailing  courage  that  he  had  always  shown,  but 
with  an  added  sense  of  the  awe  and  the  mystery  of 
the  Infinite. 


I can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro’  the  Magic 
Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 
Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 
Hovers  the  Gleam. 

That  is  the  reading  of  the  poet’s  riddle  as  he  gave 
it  to  me.  He  thought  that  “ Merlin  and  the  Gleam  ” 
would  probably  be  enough  of  biography  for  those  friends 
who  urged  him  to  write  about  himself.  However,  this 
has  not  been  their  verdict,  and  I have  tried  to  do  what 
he  said  that  I might  do,  and  have  endeavoured  to  give 
briefly  something  of  what  people  naturally  wish  to  know, 
something  about  his  birth,  homes,  school,  college,  friend- 
ships, travels,  and  the  leading  events  of  his  life,  enough 
to  present  the  sort  of  insight  into  his  history  and  pursuits 
which  one  wants,  if  one  desires  to  make  a companion  of 
a man.  The  picture  of  his  early  days  has  been  mainly 
sketched  from  what  he  and  my  mother  have  told  me. 
My  difficulty  in  arranging  the  later  chapters  has  been 
how  to  choose,  and  how  to  throw  aside,  from  the  mass  of 
material1.  I have  quoted  from  many  manuscripts  never 

1 My  thanks  are  due  to  Professor  Henry  Sidgwick  and  Professor 
Palgrave,  who  have  helped  me  to  make  my  selection  from  upwards  of  40,000 
letters. 


XVI 


PREFACE. 


meant  for  the  public  eye,  many  of  which  I have  burnt 
according  to  his  instructions.  Among  those  that  I have 
collected  here,  the  most  interesting  to  me  are  my  father’s 
unpublished  poems,  letters,  — and  notes  on  his  own  life 
and  work  left  me  for  publication  after  his  death,  Arthur 
Hallam’s  letters,  Edward  Fitzgerald’s  private  MS  notes1 
(some  of  which  he  gave  me,  and  some  of  which  have 
been  lent  to  me  by  Mr  Aldis  Wright),  and  the  jcurnal 
of  our  home  life.  This  last  is  a simple  record  of  daily 
something-nothings. 

If  there  appear,  in  the  Reminiscences  kindly  con- 
tributed by  his  different  friends,  to  be  any  discrepancies, 
let  it  be  remembered  that  the  many-sided  man  has 
sympathy  with  many  and  various  minds,  and  that  the 
poet  may  be  like  the  magnetic  needle,  which,  though 
it  can  be  moved  from  without,  yet  in  itself  remains  true 
to  the  magnetic  pole. 

According  to  my  father’s  wish,  throughout  the 
memoir  my  hand  will  be  as  seldom  seen  as  may  be,  and 
this  accounts  for  the  occasionally  fragmentary  character 
of  my  work.  The  anecdotes  and  sayings  here  related 
have  been  mostly  taken  down  as  soon  as  spoken,  and 
are  hence,  I trust,  not  marred  or  mended  by  memory, 
which,  judging  from  some  anecdotes  of  him  recently 
published,  is  wont  to  be  a register  not  wholly  accurate. 
“ Fingunt  simul  creduntque.” 

Such  reviews  as  I have  quoted  are  chiefly  those 
which  have  met  with  my  father’s  approbation  as  ex- 
planatory commentaries.  For  my  own  part,  I have 
generally  refrained  from  attempting  to  pronounce  judg- 
ment either  on  his  poems  or  on  his  personal  qualities  and 
characteristics ; although  more  than  any  living  man  I 


1 Generally  signed  E.  F.  G.  throughout  this  work. 


PREFACE. 


XVII 


have  had  reason  to  appreciate  his  splendid  truth  and 
trustfulness,  his  varied  creative  imagination,  and  love  of 
beauty,  his  rich  humour,  his  strength  of  purpose,  the 
largeness  of  his  nature,  and  the  wide  range  of  his  genius. 
If  I may  venture  to  speak  of  his  special  influence  over 
the  world,  my  conviction  is,  that  its  main  and  enduring 
factors  are  his  power  of  expression,  the  perfection  of  his 
workmanship,  his  strong  common  sense,  the  high  purport 
of  his  life  and  work,  his  humility,  and  his  open-hearted 
and  helpful  sympathy  — 


“ Fortezza , ed  umilitade , e largo  core 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  BOOKS  OF  POEMS. 


1827. — Poems  by  Two  Brothers.  London:  Printed  for  W.  Simp- 
kin  and  R.  Marshall,  Stationers’-Hall-Court ; and  J.  and  J.  Jackson. 
Louth  : 1827.  Published  in  two  sizes. 

1829.  — Timbuctoo.  A Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor’s 
Medal  at  the  Cambridge  Commencement,  1829.  By  A.  Tennyson, 
of  Trinity  College.  8vo. 

1830.  — Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London: 
Effingham  Wilson,  Royal  Exchange,  Cornhill,  1830.  i2mo. 

1832.  — Poems,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  London : Edward  Moxon, 
64  New  Bond  Street  (dated  1833).  i2mo. 

1833.  — The  Lover’s  Tale,  privately  printed  in  London. 


1842. — Poems,  by  Alfred  Tennyson. 
Dover  Street,  1842.  2 vols.,  i2mo. 

London : 

Edward 

Moxon, 

1843.- 

-The  Same.  Second  edition. 

London  : 

1843. 

2 

vols., 

1 2mo. 

1845.- 

-The  Same.  Third  edition. 

London : 

1845. 

2 

vols., 

i2mo. 

1846.- 

-The  Same.  Fourth  edition. 

London : 

1846. 

2 

vols., 

i2mo. 

1847.  — The  Princess.  A Medley.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London: 
Edward  Moxon,  Dover  Street,  1847.  i2mo. 

1848.  — The  Same.  Second  edition.  London:  1848  (with  addition 
of  dedication  to  Henry  Lushington). 

1848. — Poems,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  Fifth  edition.  London: 
Edward  Moxon,  Dover  Street,  1848.  i2mo. 

1850. — In  Memoriam.  London:  Edward  Moxon,  Dover  Street, 
1850.  i2mo.  (Appointed  Poet-laureate  Nov.  19.) 

xviii 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  BOOKS  OF  POEMS. 


XIX 


1850. — The  Princess.  Third  edition  (altered,  with  songs  added). 
London:  Edward  Moxon,  Dover  Street,  1850.  i2mo. 

1850.  — Poems,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  Sixth  edition.  London : 

1850.  i2mo.  {A/ter  reading  a Life  and  Letters  included.) 

1851.  — Poems,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  Seventh  edition.  London: 

1851.  1 2 mo.  ( Come  not  when  L am  dead,  Edwin  Morris,  The  Eagle, 
and  the  dedication  To  the  Queen  included.) 

1851. — The  Princess.  Fourth  edition.  London:  1851.  i2mo. 
This  edition  first  has  the  passages  describing  the  Prince's 
weird  seizures. 

1851.  — In  Memoriam.  Fourth  edition.  London:  1851.  i2mo. 
( O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me  ? added.) 

1852.  — Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
By  Alfred  Tennyson,  Poet-laureate.  London : Edward  Moxon,  Dover 
Street,  1852.  8vo. 

1853.  — Poems,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  Eighth  edition.  London: 
1853.  i2mo.  (With  an  alteration  in  the  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  and 
lines  To  E.  L.  added.) 

1853.  — The  Princess.  Fifth  edition  (the  final  text).  London: 
1853.  i2mo. 

1854.  — Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  published  in  the  Examiner, 
Dec.  9th,  1854,  then  printed  for  the  soldiers  before  Sebastopol,  August, 
i855- 

1855.  — Maud,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L., 
Poet-laureate.  London:  Edward  Moxon,  1855.  i2mo. 

1857. — Poems  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  Illustrations  by  D.  G. 
Rossetti,  J.  E.  Millais,  and  others.  Edward  Moxon.  Royal  8vo. 

1859. — Idylls  of  the  King.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L., 
Poet-laureate.  London:  Edward  Moxon  & Co.,  Dover  Street,  1859. 
i2mo. 

1861.  — The  Sailor  Boy.  London:  Emily  Faithfull  & Co., 

Victoria  Press. 

1862.  — Idylls  of  the  King.  A new  edition.  London : 1862. 
i2mo.  (with  Dedication  to  the  Prince  Consort). 

1862.  — Ode:  May  the  First,  1862,  for  the  opening  of  the 
International  Exhibition.  London : Edward  Moxon  & Co. 
(published  also  in  Fraser,  June,  1862). 

1863.  — Welcome  to  Alexandra.  4 pages.  London:  Edward 
Moxon  & Co. 


XX 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  BOOKS  OF  POEMS. 


1864.  — Enoch  Arden,  etc.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet- 
laureate.  London  : Edward  Moxon  & Co.,  Dover  Street,  1864.  i2mo. 

1865.  — Selections  from  the  works  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L., 
Poet-laureate.  London:  Edward  Moxon  & Co.,  Dover  Street,  1865. 
i6mo. 

This  was  published  in  Moxon' s Miniature  Poets , and  contains  six  new 
poems , viz. : 1 The  Captain ,’  ‘ On  a Mourner ,’  1 Horne  They  Brought 
Him  Slain  with  Spears ,'  and  three  ‘ Sonnets  to  a Coquette.' 


1869.  — The  Holy  Grail,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred 
Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-laureate.  London : Strahan  & Co.,  Pub- 
lishers, 56  Ludgate  Hill,  1869.  i2mo. 

1870.  — The  Window,  or  the  Song  of  the  Wrens.  With  music 
by  Arthur  Sullivan.  London:  Strahan,  1871  (Dec.  1870). 

1871.  — Miniature  Edition  of  Complete  Works.  London: 
Strahan  & Co. 

1871.  — The  Last  Tournament.  Contemporary  Review , December. 

1872.  — Gareth  and  Lynette,  etc.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L., 
Poet-laureate.  London:  Strahan  & Co.,  56  Ludgate  Hill,  1872. 
i2mo. 

1872. — The  Library  Edition  of  the  Complete  Works.  In 
seven  volumes.  London:  Strahan  & Co.,  1872.  Large  8 vo.  (The  Idylls 
of  the  King  in  sequence  with  Epilogue  to  the  Queen.) 

1874. — A Welcome  to  the  Duchess  of  Edinburgh.  H.  S. 
King  & Co. 

1874.  — The  Cabinet  Edition  (H.  S.  King  & Co.)  contained: 
In  the  Garden  at  Swainston , The  Voice  and  the  Peak , England  and 
America. 

1875.  — Queen  Mary.  A Drama,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  London: 
Henry  S.  King  & Co.,  1875.  I2mo. 

1876.  — Queen  Mary,  produced  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre. 

1876. — Harold.  A Drama,  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  London: 

Henry  S.  King  & Co.  (dated  1877).  i2mo. 

1879. — The  Lover’s  Tale.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London: 

C.  Kegan  Paul  & Co.,  1 Paternoster  Square,  1879.  i2mo. 

1879. — The  Falcon,  produced  at  the  St.  James’  Theatre. 


The  Victim. 
7*  The  Window. 


Printed  by  Sir  Ivor  Guest  (Lord  Wimborne), 
set  to  music  by  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan. 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  BOOKS  OF  POEMS. 


XXI 


1880. — Collected  Sonnets.  By  Charles  Tennyson  Turner  with 
memorial  lines  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  Edited  (with  a short  preface)  by 
Hallam  Tennyson.  London  : C.  Kegan  Paul.  121110. 

1880.  — Ballads  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred  Tennyson. 

London  : C.  Kegan  Paul  & Co.,  1 Paternoster  Square,  1880.  12 mo. 

1881.  — The  Cup,  produced  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre. 

1882.  — The  Promise  of  May,  produced  at  the  Globe  Theatre. 

1884. — The  Cup  and  the  Falcon.  By  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson, 
Poet- laureate.  London:  Macmillan  & Co.,  1884.  i2mo. 

1884. — A new  Single-Volume  Edition  of  Works.  Revised 
by  the  Author  with  corrections.  Macmillan  & Co. 

1884.  — Becket.  By  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet-laureate.  London  : 
Macmillan  & Co.,  1884.  Crown  8vo. 

1885.  — Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems  (including  Once  more  the 
Heavenly  Power , published  in  The  Youth's  Companion , Boston,  U.S.A., 
1884).  By  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-laureate.  London: 
Macmillan  & Co.,  1885.  i2mo. 

1886.  — A new  Library  Edition  of  Complete  Works.  In  ten 
volumes  (revised,  with  additions  by  the  author) . London : Macmillan 
& Co.  (Also  a new  single-volume  Edition,  with  slight  alterations. 
Macmillan  & Co.) 

1886.  — Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,  etc.  By  Alfred 
Lord  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-laureate.  London  and  New  York : 
Macmillan  & Co.,  1886.  i2mo. 

1887.  — Carmen  Saeculare.  An  ode  in  honour  of  the  Jubilee  of 
Queen  Victoria.  Macmillan' s Magazine , April. 

1889. — Demeter  and  Other  Poems.  Macmillan  & Co.,  London 
and  New  York.  i2mo.  (20,000  copies  sold  in  first  week.) 

1889. — A new  and  revised  Single -Volume  Edition  of  Works 
(with  many  additions).  Macmillan  & Co. 

1892. — The  Foresters,  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian.  London 
and  New  York  : Macmillan  & Co.  i2mp.  Produced  at  Daly’s  Theatre 
in  New  York,  March  17. 

1892.-— The  Silent  Voices.  Order  of  Service  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  Oct.  12th.  Printed  for  copyright  purposes.  London  and  New 
York  : Macmillan  & Co. 

1892. — Oct.  28th.  The  Death  of  (Enone,  Akbar’s  Dream  and 
Other  Poems.  London  and  New  York:  Macmillan  & Co.  i2mo. 
Also  large  paper  Edition  with  five  steel  portraits. 


XXII 


CHRONOLOGY  OF  THE  BOOKS  OF  POEMS. 


1893.  — Becket,  as  arranged  for  the  stage  by  Henry  Irving 
(revised  by  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson).  Macmillan  & Co. 

1894.  — The  complete  Single-Volume  Edition  of  the  Works, 
with  last  alterations,  etc.  London  : Macmillan  & Co. 


In  Rowe’s  Coming  of  Arthur,  and  Passing  of  Arthur ; G.  C.  Macaulay’s 
Gareth  and  Lynette , and  Marriage  of  Geraint \ and  Geraint  and  Enid ; 
Ainger’s  Tennyson  for  the  Young;  Rowe’s  Aylmer's  Field ; Rowe’s 
Selections  from  Tennyson;  Palgrave’s  Golden  Treasury  Selection  of 
Lyrical Poe?ns  ; Dawson’s  Princess  ; Rolfe’s  Enoch  Arden,  and  Selections , 
whenever  there  was  any  doubtful  point  in  the  notes,  I referred  it  to  my 
father : so  that  in  the  later  editions  of  these  annotated  volumes  the 
commentaries  may  be  considered  tolerably  accurate. 


Poems  published  in  the  “ Nineteenth  Century.” 

My  father  contributed  the  following  poems  to  the  Nineteenth  Century  : 
in  1877,  “ Prefatory  Sonnet”  (March),  and  “ Montenegro  ” (May),  and 
“To  Victor  Hugo  ” (June),  and  “Achilles  over  the  Trench  ” (August)  ; 
and  in  March,  1878,  he  contributed  “The  Revenge”;  in  April,  1879, 
“ The  Defence  of  Lucknow,  with  a Dedicatory  Poem  to  Princess  Alice  ” ; 
in  May,  1880,  “ De  Profundis  ” ; in  November,  1881,  “Despair”;  in 
September,  1882,  “To  Virgil”;  in  March,  1883,  “ Frater  ave  atque 
vale”;  in  February,  1892,  “On  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence 
and  Avondale.” 


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CHAPTER  I. 


BOYHOOD. 

1809-1827. 

The  Tennysons  may  probably  in  their  origin  have 
been  Danes,  and  they  appear  to  have  first  settled  north 
of  the  Humber,  in  Holderness.  The  earliest  notice  of 
the  family  that  can  be  found  is  that  in  1343  one  John 
Tenison  charged  certain  persons  with  forcibly  taking 
away  his  goods  and  chattels  at  Paulfleet  to  the  amount 
of  £40.  In  1528  John  Tennyson  of  Ryall  directs  that 
his  body  should  be  buried  in  the  kirk-garthe  of  All 
Hallows  at  Skekelinge.  To  Margaret  his  wife  he  de- 
vises one  ox-yard  of  land  and  half  a close  called  Stockett 
Croft  during  her  widowhood.  Bequests  are  also  made  to 
his  several  children.  One  of  them  named  William,  who 
was  possibly  a Mayor,  afterwards  leaves  to  John,  his 
son,  his  “ best  mace,  and  to  Paul  Church,  twenty 
pence.”  He  desires  to  be  buried  in  the  same  kirk-garthe 
of  All  Hallows.  From  these  Tennysons,  through  a 
Lancelot  Tennyson  of  Preston,  and  Ralph  Tennyson, 
who  raised  a troop  of  horse  to  support  William  III., 
descends  Michael  of  Lincoln,  my  father’s  great-grand- 
father. Michael  was  remembered  by  my  grandfather, 
the  Rev.  Dr  George  Clayton  Tennyson,  as  taking  him 
into  his  bed  and  talking  to  him  about  the  stars. 

Half-way  between  Horncastle  and  Spilsby,  in  a land 


T.  I. 


1 


1 


2 


BOYHOOD. 


[l809- 


of  quiet  villages,  large  fields,  gray  hillsides  and  noble 
tail-towered  churches,  on  the  lower  slope  of  a Lincolnshire 
wold,  the  pastoral  hamlet  of  Somersby  nestles,  embosomed 
in  trees. 

Here,  on  the  6th  of  August,  1809,  was  born,  in  his 
father’s  rectory,  Alfred  Tennyson.  He  was  the  fourth 
of  twelve  children,  eight  sons  and  four  daughters,  most 
of  them  more  or  less  true  poets,  and  of  whom  all  except 
two  have  lived  to  70  and  upward.  Dr  Tennyson  bap- 
tized the  boy  two  days  after  he  was  born,  following  the 
Prayer-book  instruction  that  people  “ defer  not  the  Bap- 
tism of  their  children  longer  than  the  first  or  second 
Sunday  next  after  their  birth.” 

“ Here’s  a leg  for  a babe  of  a week ! ” says  doctor ; and 
he  would  be  bound, 

There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes 
round  \ 

was  said  of  him ; nevertheless  during  his  infancy  three 
times  after  convulsions  he  was  thought  to  be  dead. 

In  1892  I visited  the  old  home,  and  when  I returned, 
told  my  father  that  the  trees  had  grown  up  obscur- 
ing the  view  from  the  Rectory,  and  that  the  house 
itself  looked  very  desolate.  All  he  answered  was,  “ Poor 
little  place  ! ” He  always  spoke  of  it  with  an  affectionate 
remembrance;  of  the  woodbine  that  climbed  into  the  bay 
window  of  his  nursery ; of  the  Gothic  vaulted  dining- 
room with  stained  glass  windows,  making,  as  my  uncle 
Charles  Turner  used  to  say,  “butterfly  souls”  on  the 
walls ; of  the  beautiful  stone  chimney-piece  carved  by 
his  father;  of  the  pleasant  little  drawing-room  lined 
with  book-shelves,  and  furnished  with  yellow  curtains, 
sofas  and  chairs,  and  looking  out  on  the  lawn. 
This  lawn  was  overshadowed  on  one  side  by  wych- 
elms,  and  on  the  other  by  larch  and  sycamore  trees. 


1 See  “ The  Grandmother.” 


SOMERSBY. 


3 


1827] 

Here,  my  father  said,  he  made  his  early  song  “ A spirit 
haunts  the  year’s  last  hours.”  Beyond  the  path,  bound- 
ing the  green  sward  to  the  south,  ran  in  the  old  days 
a deep  border  of  lilies  and  roses,  backed  by  hollyhocks 
and  sunflowers.  Beyond  that  was 

A garden  bower’d  close 

With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 

Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender  — 

sloping  in  a gradual  descent  to  the  parson’s  field,  at  the 
foot  of  which  flows,  by  “ lawn  and  lea,”  the  swift,  steep- 
banked  brook,  where  are  “ brambley  wildernesses,”  and 
“ sweet  forget-me-nots,”  and  in  which  the  “ long  mosses 
sway.”  The  charm  and  beauty  of  this  brook, 

That  loves 

To  purl  o’er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 

And  swerves  to  left  and  right  thro’  meadowy  curves 
That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock1, 

haunted  him  through  life. 

Near  Somersby  the  stream  joins  another  from  Holy- 
well,  and  their  confluence  may  be  referred  to  in  the  lines  : 

By  that  old  bridge,  which,  half  in  ruins  then, 

Still  makes  a hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry. 

“ Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea  ” was  the  poem 
more  especially  dedicated  to  the  Somersby  stream,  and 
not,  as  some  have  supposed,  “ The  Brook,”  which  is 
designed  to  be  a brook  of  the  imagination. 

The  orchard  on  the  right  of  the  lawn  forms  a sunny 

1 “ Ode  to  Memory,”  which  he  considered  one  of  the  best  among  his 
very  early  and  peculiarly  concentrated  Nature-poems. 


4 


BOYHOOD. 


[1809- 

little  spot  that  awoke  in  his  mind  pleasant  memories. 
“ How  often,”  he  said,  “have  I risen  in  the  early  dawn 
to  see  the  golden  globes  lying  in  the  dewy  grass  among 
those  apple  trees.”  He  delighted  too  to  recall  the 
rare  richness  of  the  bowery  lanes:  the  ancient  Norman 
cross  standing  in  the  churchyard,  close  to  the  door  of  the 
quaint  little  church : the  wooded  hollow  of  Holywell : 
the  cold  springs  flowing  from  under  the  sandstone  rocks  : 
the  flowers,  the  mosses,  and  the  ferns.  When  there  I 
looked  in  vain  for  the  words  “ Byron  is  dead,”  which 
he  had  carved  on  a rock  when  he  was  fourteen,  on 
hearing  of  Byron’s  death  (April  19th,  1824),  “a  day 
when  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  darkened  for  me.” 
Like  other  children,  the  Tennysons  had  their  imagi- 
native games;  they  were  knights  and  jousted  in  mock 
tournaments,  or  they  were  “ champions  and  warriors, 
defending  a field,  or  a stone-heap,  or  again  they  would 
set  up  opposing  camps  with  a king  in  the  midst  of 
each.  The  king  was  a willow-wand  stuck  into  the 
ground,  with  an  outer  circle  of  immortals,  to  defend 
him,  of  firmer,  stiffer  sticks.  Then  each  party  would 
come  with  stones,  hurling  at  each  other’s  king  and  trying 
to  overthrow  him1.”  Stories  are  told  too  about  their 
boyish  pranks  in  the  old  red-bricked  house  with  em- 
battled parapet  (Baumber’s  Farm),  said  to  have  been 
built  by  Vanbrugh,  which  adjoins  the  Rectory  garden, 
and  is  erroneously  called  by  some  “ The  Moated  Grange.” 
“ At  all  events,  whatever  may  have  happened,”  my  father 
writes,  “ The  Moated  Grange  is  an  imaginary  house  in 
the  fen  ; I never  so  much  as  dreamed  of  Baumber’s  farm 2 
as  the  abode  of  Mariana,  and  the  character  of  Baumber 
was  so  ludicrously  unlike  the  Northern  Farmer,  that 


1 Taken  from  the  account  which  my  father  gave  Mrs  Thackeray  Ritchie. 

2 The  localities  of  my  father’s  subject-poems  are  wholly  imaginary, 
although  he  has  done  for  general  Mid-Lincolnshire  scenery  what  Virgil 
did  for  Mantua. 


EARLY  DAYS  AT  HOME. 


5 


1827] 

it  really  makes  me  wonder  how  any  one  can  have  the 
face  to  invent  such  stories.”  I think  that  their  child- 
hood, despite  the  home  circumstances  which  will  be 
presently  noticed,  could  not  have  been  in  the  main  un- 
happy. Their  imaginative  natures  gave  them  many 
sources  of  amusement.  One  of  these  lasted  a long 
time : the  writing  of  tales  in  letter  form,  to  be  put 
under  the  vegetable  dishes  at  dinner,  and  read  aloud 
when  it  was  over.  I have  heard  from  my  uncles 
and  aunts  that  my  father’s  tales  were  very  various  in 
theme,  some  of  them  humorous  and  some  savagely 
dramatic ; and  that  they  looked  to  him  as  their  most 
thrilling  story-teller.  Among  historical  events  the  doings 
of  Wellington  and  Napoleon  were  the  themes  of  story 
and  verse.  Yet  Somersby  was  so  far  out  of  the  world 
that  the  elder  children  say  they  did  not  hear  of  the 
battle  of  Waterloo  at  the  time.  They  had  however  an 
early  memory  that  “ the  coach  drove  through  Somersby, 
the  horses  decorated  with  flowers  and  ribbons,  and 
this  might  have  been  in  honour  of  Wellington’s  great 
victory.” 

My  aunt  Cecilia  (Mrs  Lushington)  narrates  how  in 
the  winter  evenings  by  the  firelight  little  Alfred  would 
take  her  on  his  knee,  with  Arthur  and  Matilda  leaning 
against  him  on  either  side,  the  baby  Horatio  between 
his  legs;  and  how  he  would  fascinate  this  group  of  young 
hero-worshippers,  who  listened  open-eared  and  open- 
mouthed  to  legends  of  knights  and  heroes  among 
untravelled  forests  rescuing  distressed  damsels,  or  on 
gigantic  mountains  fighting  with  dragons,  or  to  his  tales 
about  Indians,  or  demons,  or  witches.  The  brothers 
and  sisters  would  sometimes  act  one  of  the  old  English 
plays;  and  the  elder  members  of  the  family  thought 
that  my  father,  from  his  dramatic  rendering  of  his  parts 
and  his  musical  voice,  would  turn  out  an  actor. 

When  he  was  seven  years  old  he  was  asked,  “ Will 


6 


BOYHOOD. 


[l809- 

you  go  to  sea  or  to  school?”  He  said,  “ To  school,” 
thinking  that  school  was  a kind  of  paradise ; so  he 
was  taken  to  the  house  of  his  grandmother  at  Louth. 
His  mother  had  been  born  in  that  town,  being  daughter 
of  the  vicar,  the  Rev.  Stephen  Fytche1;  and  he  was 
sent  to  the  Grammar  School  there,  then  under  the 
Rev.  J.  Waite,  a tempestuous,  flogging  master  of  the 
old  stamp.  He  remembered  to  his  dying  day  sitting 
on  the  stone  steps  of  the  school  on  a cold  winter’s 
morning,  and  crying  bitterly  after  a big  lad  had  brutally 
cuffed  him  on  the  head  because  he  was  a new  boy.  I 
still  have  the  books  which  he  used  there,  his  Ovid, , 
Delectus , Analecta  Grczca  Minora , and  the  old  Eton 
Latin  Grammar , originally  put  together  by  Erasmus, 
Lilly  and  Colet. 

Among  the  incidents  in  his  school  life  he  would 
recall  that  of  walking  in  a procession  of  boys,  decked 
with  ribbons,  at  the  proclamation  of  the  Coronation  of 
George  IV.,  and  how  the  old  women  said  that  “ The 
boys  made  the  prettiest  part  of  the  show.”  Later 
in  school  life,  he  one  day  stood  on  a wall  and  made  a 
political  speech  to  his  school-fellows,  but  was  promptly 
ordered  down  by  an  usher,  who  asked  him  whether  he 
wished  to  be  the  parish  beadle. 

Two  facts  that  his  grandmother  told  him  at  this  time 
impressed  him.  One  was  that  she  had  become  blind 
from  cataract,  and  then  had  a dream  that  she  saw  ; and, 
that,  although  couching  for  cataract  was  not  common 
in  those  days,  owing  to  this  dream  she  had  gone  to 

1 George  Clayton  Tennyson  of  Tealby,  clerk,  and  Elizabeth  Fytche  of 
Louth,  spinster,  were  married  in  Louth  Church  by  license  on  the  6th  August 
1805  by  Wolley  Jolland,  Vicar,  in  the  presence  of  John  Fytche  and  Charles 
Tennyson.  The  Fytches  were  a county  family  of  old  descent.  The  first 
name  on  the  Fytche  pedigree  is  John  Fitch  of  Fitch  Castle  in  the  North, 
who  died  in  the  25th  year  of  Edward  I.  His  descendant  Thomas  Fitch  was 
knighted  by  Charles  II.  1679,  served  the  office  of  High  Sheriff  in  Kent, 
and  was  created  baronet,  Sept.  7th,  1688. 


LOUTH  SCHOOL. 


7 


1827] 

London,  and  had  been  operated  on  successfully.  The 
second  was  that  she  remembered  having  seen  a young 
widow1,  dressed  in  white,  on  her  way  to  be  strangled 
(her  body  afterwards  to  be  burnt)  for  poisoning  her 
husband. 

A few  years  ago  the  present  master  of  Louth  School 
gave  a holiday  in  my  father’s  honour.  The  compliment 
gratified  him ; yet  he  said,  “ How  I did  hate  that 
school ! The  only  good  I ever  got  from  it  was  the 
memory  of  the  words,  ‘ sonus  desilientis  aquae,’  and  of 
an  old  wall  covered  with  wild  weeds  opposite  the  school 
windows.  I wrote  an  English  poem  there,  for  one  of 
the  Jacksons ; the  only  line  I recollect  is  ‘ While  bleeding 
heroes  lie  along  the  shore2.’  ” 

In  1820  he  left  Louth  and  came  home  to  work  under 
his  father. 

When  twelve  years  old  he  wrote  the  following  liter- 
ary epistle  (the  earliest  of  those  now  remaining)  to  his 
aunt  Marianne  Fytche. 

Somersby. 

My  dear  Aunt  Marianne, 

When  I was  at  Louth  you  used  to  tell  me 
that  you  should  be  obliged  to  me  if  I would  write  to 
you  and  give  you  my  remarks  on  works  and  authors. 
I shall  now  fulfil  the  promise  which  I made  at  that  time. 
Going  into  the  library  this  morning,  I picked  up  “ Sampson 
Agonistes,”  on  which  (as  I think  it  is  a play  you  like) 

1 “Women  who  were  found  guilty  of  murdering  their  husbands,  or  of  the 
other  offences  comprised  under  the  terms  high  or  petit  treason,  were 
publicly  burnt,  by  a law  which  was  not  abolished  till  1790.  A stake  ten 
or  eleven  feet  high  was  planted  in  the  ground.  An  iron  ring  was  fastened 
near  the  top,  and  from  it  the  culprit  was  hung  while  the  faggots  were  kindled 
under  her  feet.  The  law  enjoined  that  she  should  be  burnt  alive,  but  in 
practice  the  sentence  was  usually  mitigated,  and  she  was  strangled  before 
the  fire  touched  her  body.” 

Lecky’s  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century , Vol.  I.  p.  506. 

2 See  Professor  J.  W.  Hales1  account  of  Louth  School  in  the  Gentleman1 s 
Magazine , Dec.  1892.  See  Appendix,  p.  497. 


8 


BOYHOOD. 


[1809- 

I shall  send  you  my  remarks.  The  first  scene  is  the 
lamentation  of  Sampson,  which  possesses  much  pathos 
and  sublimity.  This  passage, 

Restless  thoughts,  that  like  a deadly  swarm 
Of  hornets  arm’d,  no  sooner  found  alone, 

But  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  present 
Times  past,  what  once  I was,  and  what  am  now, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  that  in  Dante,  which  Lord  Byron 
has  prefixed  to  his  “ Corsair,”  “ Nessun  maggior  dolore, 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice,  Nella  miseria.”  His 
complaint  of  his  blindness  is  particularly  beautiful, 

O loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I most  complain ! 

Blind  among  enemies ! O worse  than  chains, 

Dungeon  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age ! 

Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me  is  extinct, 

And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 

Annulled,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have  eased, 

Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become 

Of  man  or  worm ; the  vilest  here  excel  me : 

They  creep,  yet  see ; I,  dark  in  light,  exposed 
To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong, 

Scarce  half  I seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half. 

O dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 
Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 
Without  all  hope  of  day ! 

O first  created  beam,  and  thou  great  Word, 

“ Let  there  be  light ! ” and  light  was  over  all. — 

I think  this  is  beautiful,  particularly 

O dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon. 

After  a long  lamentation  of  Sampson,  the  Chorus 
enters,  saying  these  words  : 

This,  this  is  he.  Softly  awhile ; 

Let  us  not  break  in  upon  him : 

O change  beyond  report,  thought,  or  belief ! 

See  how  he  lies  at  random,  carelessly  diffused. 

If  you  look  into  Bp.  Newton’s  notes,  you  will  find  that 
he  informs  you  that  “ This  beautiful  application  of  the 


EARLY  LETTERS. 


9 


1827] 

word  ‘ diffused  ’ is  borrowed  from  the  Latin.”  It  has  the 
same  meaning  as  “ temere  ” in  one  of  the  Odes  of  Horace, 
Book  the  second, 

Sic  temere,  et  rosa 

Canos  odorati  capillos, 

of  which  this  is  a free  translation,  “ Why  lie  we  not  at 
random,  under  the  shade  of  the  plantain  (sub  platano), 
having  our  hoary  head  perfumed  with  rose  water?  ” To 
an  English  reader  the  metre  of  the  Chorus  may  seem 
unusual,  but  the  difficulty  will  vanish,  when  I inform 
him  that  it  is  taken  from  the  Greek.  In  line  133 
there  is  this  expression,  “ Chalybean  tempered  steel.” 
The  Chalybes  were  a nation  among  the  ancients  very 
famous  for  the  making  of  steel,  hence  the  expression 
“ Chalybean,”  or  peculiar  to  the  Chalybes:  in  line  147 
“ the  Gates  of  Azzar  ” ; this  probably,  as  Bp.  Newton 
observes,  was  to  avoid  too  great  an  alliteration,  which 
the  “ Gates  of  Gaza  ” would  have  caused,  though  (in 
my  opinion)  it  would  have  rendered  it  more  beautiful : 
and  (though  I do  not  affirm  it  as  a fact)  perhaps  Milton 
gave  it  that  name  for  the  sake  of  novelty,  as  all  the 
world  knows  he  was  a great  pedant.  I have  not,  at 
present,  time  to  write  any  more : perhaps  I may  con- 
tinue my  remarks  in  another  letter  to  you  : but  (as  I am 
very  volatile  and  fickle)  you  must  not  depend  upon  me, 
for  I think  you  do  not  know  any  one  who  is  so  fickle  as 
Your  affectionate  nephew, 

A.  Tennyson. 

P.S.  Frederick  informed  me  that  grandmamma  was 
quite  growing  dissipated,  going  out  to  parties  every  night. 
The  Russels  and  grandmamma  are  to  be  at  Dalby  on 
Tuesday  the  23rd,  and  I also  hope  to  be  taken  by  papa 
and  mamma  who  are  invited.  Frederick  made  mamma 
promise  to  write  him  an  account  of  the  visit,  but  if  I go, 
I shall  take  the  trouble  from  mamma. 


IO  BOYHOOD.  [1809- 

His  second  earliest  letter  is  a piece  of  nonsense  with 
which  he  favoured  his  sisters’  governess. 

La  Mancha. 

My  dear  Dulcinea, 

Pursuant  to  your  request  and  the  honour  of 
Knight-errantry,  and  in  conformity  to  my  bump  of  con- 
scientiousness (which  has  grown  so  enormous  since  my 
visit  to  you  that  I can  scarce  put  on  my  helmet),  I now 
intend,  as  far  as  lies  in  my  power,  to  fulfil  that  promise 
which  the  lustre  of  your  charms  extorted  from  me.  Know 
then,  most  adorable  mistress  of  my  heart,  that  the  manu- 
scripts which  your  angelic  goodness  and  perfection  were 
pleased  to  commend  are  not  with  me.  If  however  my 
memory,  assisted  by  the  peerless  radiance  of  your  divine 
favour,  avail  me  aught,  I will  endeavour  to  illume  the 
darkness  of  my  imagination  with  the  recollection  of  your 
glorious  excellence,  till  I produce  a species  of  artificial 
memory  unequalled  by  the  Memoria  Technica  of  Mr 
Gray.  Who  would  not  remember  when  thus  requested? 
It  would  cause  a dead  idiot  to  start  afresh  to  life  and 
intellect.  Accept  then,  soul  of  my  soul,  these  effusions, 
in  which  no  Ossianic,  Miltonic,  Byronic,  Milmanic, 
Moorish,  Crabbic,  Coleridgic  etc.  fire  is  contained. 

The  first  is  a review  of  death  : 

Why  should  we  weep  for  those  who  die  ? etc. 

The  second  is  a comparison  : 

Je  fais  naitre  la  lumiere 

Du  sein  de  l’obscurite.  (Rousseau.) 

How  gaily  sinks  the  gorgeous  sun,  etc. 

And  now  farewell,  my  incomparable  Dulcinea.  In  the 
truest  spirit  of  knight-errantry, 

Yours  ever,  Don  Quixote. 

As  to  his  earliest  attempts  at  poetry,  he  wrote  the 
following  note  for  me  in  1890  : 


1827] 


FIRST  ATTEMPTS  AT  POETRY. 


II 


“ According  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  when 
I was  about  eight  years  old,  I covered  two  sides  of  a 
slate  with  Thomsonian  blank  verse  in  praise  of  flowers 
for  my  brother  Charles,  who  was  a year  older  than  I 
was,  Thomson  then  being  the  only  poet  I knew.  Before 
I could  read,  I was  in  the  habit  on  a stormy  day  of 
spreading  my  arms  to  the  wind,  and  crying  out  ‘ I hear 
a voice  that’s  speaking  in  the  wind,’  and  the  words  ‘ far, 
far  away’  had  always  a strange  charm  for  me.  About 
ten  or  eleven  Pope’s  Homer  s Iliad  became  a favourite 
of  mine  and  I wrote  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  lines  in 
the  regular  Popeian  metre,  nay  even  could  improvise 
them,  so  could  my  two  elder  brothers,  for  my  father  was 
a poet  and  could  write  regular  metre  very  skilfully.” 

[I  give  one  example: 

Can  I forget  thee  ? In  the  festive  hall, 

Where  wit  and  beauty  reign  and  minstrelsy, 

My  heart  still  fondly  shall  recur  to  thee, 

Thine  image  still  recall. 

Can  I forget  thee  ? In  the  gloomy  hour, 

When  wave  on  wave  tempestuous  passions  roll, 

Thou,  loved  ideal,  still  shalt  soothe  my  soul, 

And  health  and  peace  restore. 

Farewell,  my  choicest  blessings  round  thee  wait, 

And  kindred  angels  guard  thine  angel  form, 

Guide  and  protect  thee  in  life’s  rudest  storm, 

And  every  blast  of  fate 1 ! ] 

1 These  lines  are  copied  from  my  grandfather’s  scrapbook,  a book  which 
with  others  in  his  library  he  bound  in  leather  with  his  own  hands.  His 
sister  Mrs  Matthew  Russell  also  dabbled  in  poetry,  and  Dr  Tennyson  writes 
to  her  about  some  of  her  compositions  in  1825  : “You  do  wrong  to  confess 
you  are  long  in  making  verses,  for  no  one  would  conceive  it  from  the  peculiar 
ease  of  the  metre.  You  are  not  however  singular:  Gray  hammer’d  at  his 
verses  with  great  difficulty,  and  yet  they'  have  immortalized  his  name. 
/Eschylus,  the  great  Greek  tragedian,  with  great  difficulty  once  composed 
three  verses  in  three  days : a poetaster  came  to  ^Eschylus,  and  boasted  that 
he  had  composed  three  thousand  in  the  same  time.  ‘Your  three  thousand 
verses,’  said  /Eschylus,  ‘ will  last  only  for  three  days,  whereas  my  three  verses 
will  last  for  ever.’  Your  soliloquy  is  very  beautiful,  and  so  beautiful  that  I 
have  transcribed  it  amongst  my  choice  selections.” 


12 


BOYHOOD. 


[l809- 

The  note  continues  — “ My  father  once  said  to  me, 
‘ Don’t  write  so  rhythmically,  break  your  lines  occasion- 
ally for  the  sake  of  variety.’ 

‘ Artist  first,  then  Poet,’  some  writer  said  of  me. 
I should  answer,  ‘ Poeta  nascitur  non  fit’;  indeed,  ‘ Poeta 
nascitur  et  fit.’  I suppose  I was  nearer  thirty  than  twenty 
before  I was  anything  of  an  artist. 

At  about  twelve  and  onward  I wrote  an  epic  of  six 
thousand  lines  a la  Walter  Scott,  — full  of  battles,  deal- 
ing too  with  sea  and  mountain  scenery,  — with  Scott’s 
regularity  of  octo-syllables  and  his  occasional  varieties. 
Though  the  performance  was  very  likely  worth  nothing 
I never  felt  myself  more  truly  inspired.  I wrote  as  much 
as  seventy  lines  at  one  time,  and  used  to  go  shouting 
them  about  the  fields  in  the  dark.  All  these  early  efforts 
have  been  destroyed,  only  my  brother-in-law  Edmund 
Lushington  begged  for  a page  or  two  of  the  Scott  poem. 
Somewhat  later  (at  fourteen)  I wrote  a Drama  in  blank 
verse,  which  I have  still,  and  other  things.  It  seems  to 
me,  I wrote  them  all  in  perfect  metre.” 

These  poems  made  my  grandfather  say  with  pardon- 
able pride,  “ If  Alfred  die,  one  of  our  greatest  poets  will 
have  gone  ” : and  at  another  time,  “ I should  not  wonder 
if  Alfred  were  to  revive  the  greatness  of  his  relative, 
William  Pitt1.” 

His  grandmother,  the  sister  of  the  Reverend  Samuel 
Turner,  would  assert:  “Alfred’s  poetry  all  comes 

from  me.”  My  father  remembered  her  reading  to  him, 
when  a boy,  “ The  Prisoner  of  Chillon  ” very  tenderly. 
Sam  Turner,  on  the  contrary,  smashed  the  bottom  out 
of  his  glass  of  rum  and  water  on  the  dinner  table,  as 
he  inveighed  against  “ this  new-fangled  Byron.” 

When  at  his  grandfather’s  desire  my  father  wrote  a 
poem  on  his  grandmother’s  death,  the  old  gentleman  gave 


1 See  p.  xxii. 


UNPOETICAL  ANCESTRY. 


13 


1827] 

him  half  a guinea  with  these  words,  “ Here  is  half  a guinea 
for  you,  the  first  you  have  ever  earned  by  poetry,  and  take 
my  word  for  it,  the  last.”  He  himself  was  not  a great 
hand  at  versification.  Two  lines  of  his  are  extant,  de- 
scribing the  crest  of  the  Boynes,  a goat  drinking  out  of  a 
stream.  His  younger  son  had  previously  made  these  lines, 

On  yonder  bank  a goat  is  stood, 

He  seems  to  sip  the  silver  flood, 

which  were  corrected  by  the  old  gentleman  as  follows, 

On  yonder  bank  a goat  I spy, 

To  sip  the  flood  he  seems  to  try. 

Owing  to  a caprice  of  my  great-grandfather’s, 
my  grandfather,  who  was  the  elder  son,  was  disin- 
herited in  favour  of  his  only  brother,  Charles  (Tennyson 
d’Eyncourt  *),  and  so  deprived  of  a position  for  which  he 
would  seem  to  have  been  well  fitted.  A neighbouring 
squire,  being  told  by  my  great-grandfather  of  his  in- 
tention, remonstrated,  “ George,  if  you  do  this  you’ll 
certainly  be  damned,  you  will  indeed  ” ; but,  in  spite  of 
the  remonstrance  and  the  risk,  the  estate  was  left  away 
from  the  elder  son. 

As  compensation  for  being  disinherited,  my  grand- 
father was  appointed  not  only  Rector  of  Somersby  and 
Wood  Enderby,  but  also  Incumbent  of  Benniworth  and 
Vicar  of  Great  Grimsby,  for  those  were  the  days  of 
pluralists.  Not  that  he  could  have  been  a grasping  man, 
for  on  one  occasion  a wealthy  land-owner  (whose  heir 
was  a remote  relation  and  a poor  farm-labourer)  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  leaving  all  his  property  to 
Dr  Tennyson.  But  this  my  grandfather  felt  was  unjust, 
and  accordingly  took  the  first  opportunity  of  offending 

1 Charles  took  the  name  of  d’Eyncourt  because,  according  to  Burke  and 
other  heralds,  the  Tennysons  represent  the  two  branches  of  the  old  Norman 
family  of  d’Eyncourt. 


14 


BOYHOOD. 


[l809- 

his  would-be  benefactor  in  order  that  he  might  change 
his  mind.  The  ruse  was  successful,  as  the  sequel 
proved,  for  the  estate  devolved  upon  the  rightful 
heir. 

Undoubtedly  the  disinheritance  of  my  grandfather 
created  a feeling  of  injustice  in  his  mind  which  descended 
to  his  sons,  though  my  father  used  to  reflect  in  later 
years  how  little  this  early  trial  personally  affected  them 
and  the  d’Eyncourt  sons;  the  cousins  were  always  good 
friends. 

My  grandfather  had  no  real  calling  for  the  ministry 
of  the  Church,  yet  he  faithfully  strove  to  do  his  duty. 
He  was  a man  of  great  ability,  and  considerably  in 
advance  of  his  age  in  his  theological  tenets,  although 
in  his  sermons  he  could  not  escape  the  academic  style 
of  his  time ; for  example  : “ The  benevolent  genius  of 
Christianity  affords  the  strongest  presumption  of  its  verity. 
The  Almighty,  so  infinitely  benevolent,  can  only  wish  to 
ensure  the  happiness  of  His  creatures  in  the  truths  which 
He  communicates,  in  the  laws  which  He  imposes,  and 
in  the  doctrines  which  He  promulgates.  This  indeed  is 
so  self-evident  that  it  might  be  laid  down  as  a rule  that 
if  any  religion  have  not  a benevolent  tendency,  this  very 
circumstance  is  a sufficient  refutation  of  its  proceeding 
from  God.  What  is  revealed  to  us  by  Christianity  but 
the  Redemption  of  the  whole  human  race  by  the  merits 
of  a crucified  Saviour,  and  the  glorious  assurance  of  a 
future  state  of  existence  ? ” 

The  Lincolnshire  folk  among  whom  he  lived  were 
in  the  early  part  of  this  century  apt  to  be  uncouth 
and  mannerless.  A type  of  rough  independence  was 
my  grandfathers  coachman,  who,  blamed  for  not  keep- 
ing the  harness  clean,  rushed  into  the  drawing-room, 
flung  the  whole  harness  on  the  floor  and  roared  out : 
“ Clean  it  yourself  then.”  It  was  perhaps  the  same 
man,  who  at  the  time  of  the  Reform  Bill  said,  “ I 


RELIGIOUS  IMPRESSIONS. 


1827] 


*5 


suppose,  Master  Awlfred,  your  aunt  Mrs^*Bourne  will 
be  going  up  to  London  before  they  begin  to  kill  the 
quality .” 

(This  aunt  was  a rigid  Calvinist,  who  would  weep  for 
hours  because  God  was  so  infinitely  good.  “ Has  He  not 
damned,”  she  cried,  “ most  of  my  friends  ? But  me,  vie 
He  has  picked  out  for  eternal  salvation,  me  who  am  no 
better  than  my  neighbours.”  One  day  she  said  to  her 
nephew,  “ Alfred,  Alfred,  when  I look  at  you,  I think  of 
the  words  of  Holy  Scripture  — ‘Depart  from  me,  ye 
cursed,  into  everlasting  fire.’  ”) 

Again  the  Somersby  cook  was  a decided  character, 
and  “ Master  Awlfred  ” heard  her  in  some  rage  against 
her  master  and  mistress  exclaim : “ If  you  raaked  out 
Hell  with  a smaall-tooth  coamb  you  wean’t  find  their 
likes,”  a phrase  which  long  lingered  in  his  memory. 

Yet  notwithstanding  their  roughness  the  poor  were 
fond  of  the  “ stern  Doctor,”  as  they  called  him,  and 
would  “ do  anything  for  him.”  Here  perhaps  I should 
mention  that  the  sense  of  his  father’s  unkindness  and 
injustice  preyed  upon  his  nerves  and  his  health,  and 
caused  him  at  times  to  be  terribly  despondent.  More 
than  once  Alfred,  scared  by  his  father’s  fits  of  despond- 
ency, went  out  through  the  black  night,  and  threw 
himself  on  a grave  in  the  churchyard,  praying  to  be 
beneath  the  sod  himself1. 


1 In  one  of  his  books  I have  found  this  unfinished  prayer,  composed  by 
him,  and  written  in  his  boyish  hand  ; it  begins  thus  : 

“ O Lord  God  Almighty,  high  above  all  height,  Omniscient  and  Omni- 
present, Whose  lifetime  is  eternity,  wilt  Thou  condescend  to  behold  from  the 
throne  of  Thy  inexpressible  Majesty  the  work  of  Thine  own  Hands  kneeling 
before  thee?  Thou  art  the  God  of  Heaven  and  of  Earth.  Thou  hast  created 
the  immeasurable  sea.  Thou  hast  laid  the  foundations  of  the  world  that  it 
should  not  be  moved  for  ever.  Thou  givest  and  Thou  takest  life,  Thou 
destroyest  and  Thou  renewest.  Blessed  be  Thy  name  for  ever  and  ever.” 
The  prayer  continues  with  an  appeal  for  pity  to  Christ  — “ Who  did  leave 
the  right  hand  of  the  Father  to  endure  the  agonies  of  the  crown  of  thorns,” 
and  “of  the  Cross.” 


i6 


BOYHOOD. 


[1809- 

No  doubt  the  children  profited  by  the  dominating 
force  of  their  father’s  intellect.  A Hebrew  and  Syriac 
scholar,  he  perfected  himself  in  Greek,  in  order  that 
he  might  teach  his  sons.  All  that  they  learnt  of  lan- 
guages, of  the  fine  arts,  of  mathematics,  and  natural 
science,  until  they  went  to  Cambridge,  was  learnt 
from  him.  My  father  said  that  he  himself  received 
a good  but  not  a regular  classical  education.  At 
any  rate  he  became  an  accurate  scholar,  the  author 
“ thoroughly  drummed  ” into  him  being  Horace;  whom 
he  disliked  in  proportion.  He  would  lament,  “ They 
use  me  as  a lesson-book  at  schools,  and  they  will 
call  me  ‘that  horrible  Tennyson.’  It  was  not  till 
many  years  after  boyhood  that  I could  like  Horace. 
Byron  expressed  what  I felt,  ‘ Then  farewell  Horace 
whom  I hated  so.’  Indeed  I was  so  over-dosed  with 
Horace  that  I hardly  do  him  justice  even  now  that  I 
am  old.’’ 

The  boys  had  one  great  advantage,  the  run  of  their 
father’s  excellent  library.  Amongst  the  authors  most 
read  by  them  were  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Burke,  Gold- 
smith, Rabelais,  Sir  William  Jones,  Addison,  Swift, 
Defoe,  Cervantes,  Bunyan  and  Buffon. 

Dr  Tennyson’s  social  powers  were  famous  through- 
out the  country  side.  The  tradition  lingered  long 
among  old  barristers  that,  as  young  men,  when  they 
came  to  Spilsby  on  circuit,  they  were  always  anxious 
to  persuade  Dr  Tennyson  to  dine  with  them  because 
of  his  geniality  and  brilliant  conversation. 

To  this  sketch  of  my  grandfather,  my  uncle  Arthur 
adds  a few  words. 

A scene  comes  before  me  of  Frederick,  Charles  and  Alfred 
having  a regular  scrimmage  with  lesson-books,  and  of  my  father 
suddenly  coming  round  the  corner.  I didn’t  wait  to  see  what 
happened,  but  bolted;  our  father’s  tall  form  appearing  was 
generally  at  such  moments  the  signal  for  a regular  “ scatter,”  but, 


THE  BROTHERS  AT  SOMERSBY. 


1 7 


1827] 

although  very  severe,  he  had  great  tenderness  of  heart.  I can 
well  recollect  him  by  my  bedside,  almost  weeping,  when  I had 
a bad  paroxysm  of  croup.  Alfred  had  the  same  tenderness  in 
spite  of  his  somewhat  gruff  manner : he  was  notable  among  his 
brothers  for  strength  and  independence  of  character.  His  was  a 
very  gentle  nature  and  I never  remember  quarrelling  with  him. 
He  was  very  kind  to  us  who  were  younger  than  he  was,  and  I 
remember  his  tremendous  excitement  when  he  got  hold  of 
Bewick  for  the  first  time : how  he  paced  up  and  down  the  lawn 
for  hours  studying  him,  and  how  he  kept  rushing  in  to  us  in  the 
schoolroom  to  show  us  some  of  the  marvellous  wood-cuts,  and  to 
let  us  have  a share  in  this  new  pleasure  of  his.  Indeed  he  was 
always  a great  reader ; and  if  he  went  alont  he  would  take  his 
book  with  him  on  his  walk.  One  day  in  the  winter,  the  snow 
being  deep,  he  did  not  hear  the  Louth  mail  coming  up  behind. 
Suddenly  “ Ho  ! ho  5 ” from  the  coachman  roused  him.  He  looked 
up,  and  found  a horse’s  nose  and  eyes  over  his  shoulder,  as  if 
reading  his  book.  Like  my  father,  Alfred  had  a great  head, 
so  that  when  I put  on  his  hat  it  came  down  over  my  face. 
He  too  like  my  father1  had  a powerful  frame,  a splendid 
physique,  and  we  used  to  have  gymnastics  over  the  large  beam 
in  his  attic  den,  which  was  in  the  gable  looking  westward.  Alfred 
and  I often  took  long  rambles  together,  and  on  one  particular 
afternoon,  when  we  were  in  the  home  fields  talking  of  our 
respective  futures,  he  said  most  emphatically,  “Well,  Arthur,  I 
mean  to  be  famous.”  (From  his  earliest  years  he  felt  that  he 
was  a poet,  and  earnestly  trained  himself  to  be  worthy  of  his 
vocation.)  For  our  less  active  amusements  we  carved  in  wood 
and  moulded  with  clay,  and  one  of  my  earliest  recollections  of 
Alfred  is  watching  him  form  with  clay  a Gothic  archway  in 
the  bole  of  an  old  tree. 

In  the  poem  of  “ Isabel  ” my  father  more  or  less 
described  his  mother,  who  was  a “ remarkable  and 
saintly  woman.”  “ One  of  the  most  innocent  and  tender- 
hearted ladies  I ever  saw,”  wrote  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

1 He  stood  six  feet  two,  and  was  strong  and  energetic.  Tim  Green,  the 
Somersby  rat-catcher,  a great  ally  of  the  young  Tennysons,  said,  “I 
remember  the  oud  Doctor.  What  a clip  he  used  to  goa  betweean  them 
chooorches  o’  Somersby  an1  Enderby!  ” 


BOYHOOD. 


1 8 


[1809- 


She  devoted  herself  entirely  to  her  husband  and  her 
children. 

The  world  hath  not  another 
(Tho’  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 

And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 

Of  such  a finish’d  chasten’d  purity. 


She  had  been  among  the  beauties  of  the  county. 
When  she  was  almost  eighty,  a daughter,  under  cover  of 
her  deafness,  ventured  to  mention  the  number  of  offers 
of  marriage  which  had  been  made  to  her  mother,  naming 
twenty-four.  Suddenly,  to  the  amusement  of  all  present, 
the  old  lady  said  emphatically,  and  quite  simply,  as  for 
truth’s  sake,  “ No,  my  dear,  twenty-five.”  She  had  a 
great  sense  of  humour,  which  made  her  room  a paradise 
for  the  children.  They  inherited  her  love  of  animals1 
and  her  pity  “for  all  wounded  wings.”  And  my  father 
was  even  then  a keen  observer  of  the  habits  of  birds  and 
beasts  and  ants  and  bees ; was  “ wise  in  winged  things, 
and  knew  the  ways  of  Nature,”  of  which  he  had  the 
true  poet’s  love.  In  later  life  this  led  to  an  earnest  study 
of  science. 

As  a boy  he  would  reel  off  hundreds  of  lines  such 
as  these : 


When  winds  are  east  and  violets  blow, 
And  slowly  stalks  the  parson  crow. 

And 


The  quick-wing’d  gnat  doth  make  a boat 
Of  his  old  husk  wherewith  to  float 
To  a new  life ! all  low  things  range 
To  higher!  but  I cannot  change. 

1 The  boys  of  a neighbouring  village  used  to  bring  their  dogs  to  my 
grandmother’s  windows  and  beat  them  in  order  to  be  bribed  to  leave  off,  or 
to  induce  her  to  buy  them. 


1827] 


HIS  LOVE  OF  NATURE. 


19 


To  the  aggravation  of  the  neighbouring  gamekeepers 
he  would  spring  all  their  traps,  and  more  than  one  of 
them  threatened  that,  if  they  caught  “ that  there  young 
gentleman  who  was  for  ever  springing  the  gins,”  they 
would  duck  him  in  the  pond. 

He  liked  to  tell  of  an  owl  and  a monkey  of  famous 
memory.  Sitting  at  night  by  the  open  window  in  his 
own  particular  little  attic  (now  used  as  a store-room 
for  apples  and  lumber),  he  heard  the  cry  of  a young 
owl  and  answered  it.  The  owl  came  nestling  up  to 
him,  fed  out  of  his  hand,  and  finally  took  up  its  per- 
manent abode  with  the  family.  Sometimes  it  would 
perch  on  my  grandmother’s  head,  and  was  so  constantly 
with  her  that  her  pet  monkey  was  made  jealous.  The 
monkey  was  a droll  fellow:  he  would  imitate  the  house- 
maid scrubbing  the  floor,  and  his  prime  luxury  was  to 
singe  the  hair  of  his  back  at  a candle.  One  luckless 
day  he  was  sitting  in  a corner  of  the  sill  outside  the 
attic  window,  the  owl  in  the  opposite  corner.  The 
monkey  glared  at  the  owl ; the  owl  watched  the  monkey 
with  solemn  round  eyes, — the  monkey,  advancing  and 
retiring,  and  gibbering  like  a little  Frenchman  all  the 
while.  The  little  Frenchman  at  last  plucked  up 
courage,  rushed  at  his  solemn  opponent,  took  him  by 
the  leg,  and  hurled  him  to  the  ground.  “ One  of 
the  most  comical  scenes,”  rny  father  said,  “that  I have 
ever  witnessed.”  The  owl  was  eventually  drowned  in 
the  well ; dying,  it  is  supposed,  a Narcissus  death  of 
vanity. 

“ Like  Wordsworth  on  the  mountains,”  said  Fitz- 
gerald, “ Alfred  too,  when  a lad  abroad  on  the  wold, 
sometimes  of  a night  with  the  shepherd,  watched  not 
only  the  flock  on  the  greensward,  but  also 

the  fleecy  star  that  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas  ” : 


20 


BOYHOOD. 


Two  of  Alfred’s  earliest  lines  were 


[l809- 


The  rays  of  many  a rolling  central  star, 

Aye  flashing  earthwards,  have  not  reach’d  us  yet. 


There  is  a story  current  in  the  family  that  Frederick, 
when  an  Eton  school-boy,  was  shy  of  going  to  a neigh- 
bouring dinner-party  to  which  he  had  been  invited. 
“ Fred,”  said  his  younger  brother,  “ think  of  Herschel’s 
great  star-patches,  and  you  will  soon  get  over  all  that.” 

Of  the  few  families  in  the  neighbourhood  the  Ten- 
nysons  were  most  intimate  with  the  Rawnsleys.  Mr 
Rawnsley,  who  was  Rector  of  Halton,  was  appointed  by 
Dr  Tennyson  one  of  the  guardians  of  his  children.  For 
his  son  Drummond  my  father  had  a strong  friendship 
which  lasted  through  life,  having  been  first  attracted 
to  him  by  a certain  unworldliness  of  nature. 

In  the  summer-time  Dr  and  Mrs  Tennyson  took 
their  holiday  by  the  seaside,  mostly  at  Mablethorpe. 
From  his  boyhood  my  father  had  a passion  for  the  sea, 
and  especially  for  the  North  Sea  in  wild  weather — 

The  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts: 
and  for  the  glorious  sunsets  over  the  flats  — 

The  wide-wing’d  sunset  of  the  misty  marsh. 

The  cottage 1 to  which  the  family  resorted  was  close 
under  the  sea  bank,  “ the  long  low  line  of  tussocked  dunes.” 
“ I used  to  stand  on  this  sand-built  ridge,”  my  father 
said,  “ and  think  that  it  was  the  spine-bone  of  the  world.” 
From  the  top  of  this,  the  immense  sweep  of  marsh  inland  1 
and  the  whole  weird  strangeness  of  the  place  greatly 

1 Or  even  a lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch’d  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous  marsh, 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 

Like  emblems  of  infinity, 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky. 


“Ode  to  Memory.” 


1827]  “POEMS  BY  TWO  BROTHERS.”  21 

moved  him.  On  the  other  side  of  the  bank  at 
low  tide  there  is  an  immeasurable  waste  of  sand  and 
clay.  “ Nottingham  and  Lincoln  foalk  moastly  coom 
’ere,”  one  of  the  Mablethorpe  fishermen  grumbled,  “a 
-vast  sight  of  ’em,  soom  taime  (time),  but  they  saays  it 
is  a mighty  dool  plaace  with  a deal  o’  sand,  becos  there 
isn’t  naw  band  nor  pier  like  : but  howsoomever,  the  wind 
blaws  the  poor  things  a bit,  an’  they  weshes  their  bodies 
i’  the  waaves.”  At  night  on  the  shore,  when  the  tide 
is  full,  the  sound  is  amazing.  All  around  there  is  a 
low  murmur  of  seething  foam, 

Like  armies  whispering  where  great  echoes  be. 

“Nowhere,”  wrote  Drummond  Rawnsley,  “are  the 
waves  in  a storm  higher  than  in  the  North  Sea”:  no- 
where have  the  breakers  a more  thunderous  roar  than 
on  this  Lincolnshire  coast : and  sometimes  at  half-tide 
the  clap  of  the  wave  falling  on  the  flat  shore  can  be 
heard  for  miles,  and  is  accurately  described  in  “ The 
Last  Tournament”: 

As  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching  wave, 
Heard  in  dead  night  along  that  table-shore, 

Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters  break 
Whitening  for  half  a league,  and  thin  themselves, 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and  cloud, 

From  less  and  less  to  nothing. 

Fitzgerald  writes : “ I used  to  say  Alfred  never 

should  have  left  old  Lincolnshire,  where  there  were  not 
only  such  good  seas,  but  also  such  fine  Hill  and  Dale 
among  ‘ The  Wolds,’  which  he  was  brought  up  in,  as 
people  in  general  scarce  thought  on.” 

In  1827  my  uncle  Frederick  went  from  Eton,  where 
he  was  captain  of  the  school,  to  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge : and  in  March  of  this  year  Poems  by  Two  Brothers 


22 


BOYHOOD. 


[l809- 

was  published  by  Jackson  of  Louth.  When  these  poems 
were  written,  my  uncle  Charles  was  between  sixteen  and 
eighteen,  and  my  father  between  fifteen  and  seventeen. 

The  brothers  were  promised  the  liberal  sum  of  £ 20 , 
having  however  to  take  more  than  half  of  this  in  books 
out  of  Jackson’s  shop.  According  to  the  fashion  of  the 
day,  quotations  from  various  authors  were  freely  inter- 
spersed throughout  the  little  volume,  and  the  motto  at  the 
beginning  was  “ Haec  nos  novimus  esse  nihil.”  Their 
preface  states,  “We  have  passed  the  Rubicon  and  we 
leave  the  rest  to  fate,  though  its  edict  may  create  a 
fruitless  regret  that  we  ever  emerged  ‘ from  the  shade  ’ 
and  courted  notoriety.” 

As  an  outburst  of  youthful  poetic  enthusiasm,  the 
book  is  not  wanting  in  interest  and  a certain  charm, 
although  full  of  the  boyish  imitation  of  other  poets. 
Unlike  Swift,  who  exclaimed  on  re-reading  his  early 
work,  “ What  a genius  I had  when  I wrote  that ! ” my 
father  could  hardly  tolerate  what  he  called  his  “ early 
rot.”  But  latterly  he  said,  “ Some  of  it  is  better  than 
I thought  it  was ! ” In  consequence  of  the  unearthing 
of  this  MS  by  Messrs  Jackson  it  fell  to  me  to  publish 
the  second  edition,  sixty  years  after  the  publication  of 
the  first,  and  to  endeavour  to  initial  the  poems.  Yet 
I cannot  be  sure  of  the  authorship  of  each,  even  though 
the  original  manuscript  has  been  in  my  hands,  for  the 
poems  are  not  always  copied  out  by  their  respective 
authors.  But  the  initials  which  I gave  received  the 
sanction  and  authority  of  my  uncle  Frederick,  as  far 
as  his  memory  served  him.  He  himself  was  the  author 
of  four  of  the  poems,  that  had  generally  been  attributed 
to  Charles. 

The  only  contemporary  criticism  is  in  the  Literary 
Chronicle  (May  1827): 

This  little  volume  exhibits  a pleasing  union  of  kindred 
tastes,  and  contains  several  little  pieces  of  considerable  merit. 


EARLY  UNPUBLISHED  POEMS. 


23 


1827] 

My  uncle  Charles  would  say  that,  on  the  afternoon  of 
publication,  my  father  and  he  hired  a carriage  with  some 
of  the  money  earned ; and  driving  away  fourteen  miles, 
over  the  wolds  and  the  marsh,  to  Mablethorpe,  their 
favourite  waste  sea-shore,  “ shared  their  triumph  with 
the  winds  and  waves.” 


Unpublished  Poems  of  Boyhood. 

(Fragments  written  at  14  or  15  years  of  age.) 

I showed  the  following  early  fragments  to  the  late 
Master  of  Balliol  and  by  his  advice  I publish  them. 
He  said,  “They  are  most  original,  and  it  is  wonderful  how 
the  whelp  could  have  known  such  things.”  They  were 
omitted  from  the  Poems  by  Two  Brothers , being  thought 
too  much  out  of  the  common  for  the  public  taste. 


(A  scene , written  at  14.) 

Act  1,  Sc.  1 (In  Spain). 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 

Carlos  (a  spirited  stripling  with  a spice  of  suspicion  and  a pre- 
ponderance of  pride). 

Michael  (his  old  attendant) . 

Moonlight. 

Carl.  Hear  you  the  sound  of  wheels? 

Mich . No,  faith,  not  I. 

Carl.  Methinks  they  tarry  somewhat.  What’s  the 
clock  ? 

Mick . Half  way  toward  midnight. 

Carl.  Why,  they  should  be  here. 

Mick.  ’Tis  a clear  night,  they  will  be  here  anon. 
Carl.  Hist ! what  was  that  ? 


24 


BOYHOOD. 


Mich . 
Carl . 


Mick, 

Carl. 
Mich . 


[1809-* 

The  night  gale  in  those  trees. 
How  beautifully  looks  the  moonbeam  through 
The  knotted  boughs  of  this  long  avenue 
Of  thick  dark  oaks,  that  arch  their  arms  above, 
Coeval  with  the  battlemented  towers 
Of  my  old  ancestors  ! 

I never  look  upon  them  but  I glow 
With  an  enthusiastic  love  of  them. 

Methinks  an  oak-tree  never  should  be  planted 
But  near  the  dwelling  of  some  noble  race ; 

For  it  were  almost  mockery  to  hang  it 

O’er  the  thatch’d  cottage,  or  the  snug  brick  box 

Of  some  sleek  citizen. 

Ye  proud  aristocrats  whose  lordly  shadows, 
Chequer’d  with  moonlight’s  variation, 

Richly  and  darkly  girdle  these  gray  walls, — 

I and  my  son’s  sons  and  our  offspring,  all 
Shall  perish,  and  their  monuments,  with  forms 
Of  the  unfading  marble  carved  upon  them, 

Which  speak  of  us  to  other  centuries, 

Shall  perish  also,  but  ye  still  shall  flourish 
In  your  high  pomp  of  shade,  and  make  beneath 
Ambrosial  gloom.  Thou  dost  remember,  Michael, 
How,  when  a boy,  I joy’d  to  place  me  on 
The  hollow-stemm’d  and  well-nigh  leafless  oak 
Which  towers  above  the  lake  that  ripples  out 
In  the  clear  moonshine. 

You  were  wont  to  call  it 


Your  throne. 


I was  so,  Michael. 

You’d  sit  there 

From  dawn  till  sunset  looking  far  away 
On  the  blue  mountains,  and  most  joyful  when 
The  wanton  wind  came  singing  lustily 
Among  the  moss-grown  branches,  and  threw  back 
Your  floating  hair. 


1827]  FRAGMENT  OF  A PLAY.  25 

Carl.  Ha!  Ha!  Why  even  then 

My  Spanish  blood  ran  proudly  in  my  veins. 
Mich.  Ay,  Ay,  I warrant  you,  and  when  I came 

And  would  have  call’d  you  down  to  break  your 
fast, 

You  would  look  down  and  knit  your  baby  brows 
Into  your  father’s  frown,  and  beckon  me 
Away. 

Carl.  Ha!  Ha!  ’twas  laughable,  and  yet 

It  show’d  the  seeds  of  innate  dignity 
That  were  within  me ; did  it  not,  good  Michael  ? 
Mich . And  when  your  age  had  somewhat  riper  grown, 
And  I was  wont  to  dandle  you  upon 
My  knee,  and  ask  you  whether  you  would  be 
A great  man  in  your  time, 

You’d  weave  your  waxen  fingers  in  these  locks 
(They  are  gray  now)  and  tell  me  you  were  great 
Already  in  your  birth. 

Carl.  Ha!  by  St  James 

Mine  was  no  vulgar  mind  in  infancy, 

Ev’n  then  the  force  of  nature  and  high  birth 
Had  writ  nobility  upon  my  brow. 

Hark!  they  are  coming. 


Extract  from  a Play  also  written  at  14 

(according  to  an  entry  made  by  my  grandfather  at  the  beginning 

of  the  MS). 

The  Devil  (speaks) 

(going  to  the  timepiece). 

Half  after  midnight ! these  mute  moralizers, 

Pointing  to  the  unheeded  lapse  of  hours, 

Become  a tacit  eloquent  reproach 


26  BOYHOOD.  [l809- 

Unto  the  dissipation  of  this  Earth. 

There  is  a clock  in  Pandemonium, 

Hard  by  the  burning  throne  of  my  great  grandsire, 
The  slow  vibrations  of  whose  pendulum, 

With  click-clack  alternation  to  and  fro, 

Sound  “Ever,  Never”  thro’  the  courts  of  Hell, 
Piercing  the  wrung  ears  of  the  damn’d  that  writhe 
Upon  their  beds  of  flame,  and  whensoe’er 
There  may  be  short  cessation  of  their  wails, 
Through  all  that  boundless  depth  of  fires  is  heard 
The  shrill  and  solemn  warning  “Ever,  Never”: 
Then  bitterly  I trow  they  turn  and  toss 
And  shriek  and  shout  to  drown  the  thrilling  noise. 
Half  after  midnight!  {Looking  again  at  the  timepiece.) 

Wherefore  stand  I here? 

Methinks  my  tongue  runs  twenty  knots  an  hour: 

I must  unto  mine  office. 

{Exit  abruptly .) 


After  reading  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor  he  wrote 
the  following: 

The  Bridal.* 

The  lamps  were  bright  and  gay 
On  the  merry  bridal-day, 

When  the  merry  bridegroom 
Bore  the  bride  away ! 

A merry,  merry  bridal, 

A merry  bridal-day ! 

And  the  chapel’s  vaulted  gloom 
Was  misted  with  perfume. 

“ Now,  tell  me,  mother,  pray, 

Why  the  bride  is  white  as  clay, 

Although  the  merry  bridegroom 
Bears  the  bride  away, 


* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


1827] 


THE  BRIDAL.’ 


27 


On  a merry,  merry  bridal, 

A merry  bridal-day? 

And  why  her  black  eyes  burn 

With  a light  so  wild  and  stern?” 

“ They  revel  as  they  may,” 

That  skinny  witch  did  say, 

“For  — now  the  merry  bridegroom 
Hath  borne  the  bride  away  — 

Her  thoughts  have  found  their  wings 
In  the  dreaming  of  past  things: 

And  though  girt  in  glad  array, 

Yet  her  own  deep  soul  says  nay: 

For  tho’  the  merry  bridegroom 
Hath  borne  the  bride  away, 

A dark  form  glances  quick 

Thro’  her  worn  brain,  hot  and  sick.” 
And  so  she  said  her  say  — 

This  was  her  roundelay  — 

That  tho’  the  merry  bridegroom 
Might  lead  the  bride  away, 

Dim  grief  did  wait  upon  her, 

In  glory  and  in  honour. 

* # # # # 

In  the  hall,  at  close  of  day, 

Did  the  people  dance  and  play, 

For  now  the  merry  bridegroom 
Hath  borne  the  bride  away. 

He  from  the  dance  hath  gone 
But  the  revel  still  goes  on. 

Then  a scream  of  wild  dismay 

Thro’  the  deep  hall  forced  its  way, 
Altho’  the  merry  bridegroom 
Hath  borne  the  bride  away; 

And,  staring  as  in  trance, 

They  were  shaken  from  the  dance. — 


28 


BOYHOOD. 


Then  they  found  him  where  he  lay 
Whom  the  wedded  wife  did  slay, 
Tho’  he  a merry  bridegroom 
Had  borne  the  bride  away, 

And  they  saw  her  standing  by, 
With  a laughing  crazed  eye, 

On  the  bitter,  bitter  bridal, 

The  bitter  bridal-day. 


The  Coach  of  Death.* 

(A  fragment.) 

Far  off  in  the  dun,  dark  Occident, 

Behind  the  burning  Sun: 

Where  his  gilding  ray  is  never  sent, 

And  his  hot  steeds  never  run: 

There  lies  a land  of  chilling  storms, 

A region  void  of  light, 

A land  of  thin  faces  and  shadowy  forms, 

Of  vapours,  and  mist,  and  night. 

There  never  green  thing  will  gaily  spring 
In  that  unwholesome  air, 

But  the  rickety  blast  runs  shrilly  and  fast 
Thro’  the  bony  branches  there. 

When  the  shadow  of  night’s  eternal  wings 
Envelopes  the  gloomy  whole, 

And  the  mutter  of  deep-mouth’d  thunderings 
Shakes  all  the  starless  pole, 

Thick  sobs  and  short  shrill  screams  arise 
Along  the  sunless  waste, 

And  the  things  of  past  days  with  their  horrible  eyes 
Look  out  from  the  cloudy  vast. 

* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


1827]  “THE  COACH  OF  DEATH.”  29 

And  the  earth  is  dry,  tho’  the  pall  of  the  sky 
Leave  never  an  inch  of  blue; 

And  the  moaning  wind  before  it  drives 
Thick  wreaths  of  cloudy  dew. 

Whoever  walks  that  bitter  ground 
His  limbs  beneath  him  fail; 

His  heart  throbs  thick,  his  brain  reels  sick: 

His  brow  is  clammy  and  pale. 

But  some  have  hearts  that  in  them  bum 
With  power  and  promise  high, 

To  draw  strange  comfort  from  the  earth, 

Strange  beauties  from  the  sky. 


Dark  was  the  night,  and  loud  the  roar 
Of  wind  and  mingled  shower, 

When  there  stood  a dark  coach  at  an  old  Inn  door 
At  the  solemn  midnight  hour. 

That  Inn  was  built  at  the  birth  of  Time : 

The  walls  of  lava  rose, 

Cemented  with  the  burning  slime 
Which  from  Asphaltus  flows. 

No  sound  of  joy,  no  revelling  tones 
Of  carouse  were  heard  within : 

But  the  rusty  sign  of  a skull  and  cross-bones 
Swung  creaking  before  the  Inn. 

No  taper’s  light  look’d  out  on  the  night, 

But  ever  and  anon 

Strange  fiery  eyes  glared  fiercely  thro’ 

The  windows  of  shaven  bone. 

And  the  host  came  forth,  and  stood  alone 
And  still  in  the  dark  doorway: 

There  was  not  a tinge  on  each  high  cheek  bone, 
But  his  face  was  a yellow  gray. 


30 


BOYHOOD. 


[l809- 

The  skin  hung  lax  on  his  long  thin  hands; 

No  jolly  host  was  he; 

For  his  shanks  were  shrunken  to  willow  wands 
And  his  name  was  Atrophy  ! 

Dimly  the  travellers  look’d  thro’  the  glooms, 

Worn  and  wan  was  their  gaze,  I trow, 

As  the  shrivell’d  forms  of  the  shadowy  grooms 
Yoked  the  skeleton  horses  to. 

They  lifted  their  eyes  to  the  dead,  pale  skies, 

And  above  the  barkless  trees 
They  saw  the  green  verge  of  the  pleasant  earth, 
And  heard  the  roar  of  her  seas. 

They  see  the  light  of  their  blest  firesides, 

They  hear  each  household  voice : 

The  whisper’d  love  of  the  fair  young  wives; 

And  the  laugh  of  their  rose-lipp’d  boys. 

The  summer  plains  with  their  shining  leaves, 

The  summer  hills  they  see ; 

The  dark  vine  leaves  round  the  rustling  eaves, 

And  the  forests,  fair  and  free. 


There  came  a gaunt  man  from  the  dark  Inn  door, 
A dreadnought  coat  had  he: 

His  bones  crack’d  loud,  as  he  stept  thro’  the  crowd, 
And  his  boots  creak’d  heavily. 

Before  his  eyes  so  grim  and  calm 
The  tingling  blood  grew  chill, 

As  each  put  a farthing  into  his  palm, 

To  drive  them  where  he  will. 

His  sockets  were  eyeless,  but  in  them  slept 
A red  infernal  glow; 

As  the  cockroach  crept,  and  the  white  fly  leapt 
About  his  hairless  brow. 


1827]  “THE  COACH  OF  DEATH.”  31 

They  mounted  slow  in  their  long  black  cloaks, 

The  tears  bedimm’d  their  sight: 

The  grim  old  coachee  strode  to  the  box, 

And  the  guard  gasp’d  out  “All’s  right.” 

The  leaders  bounded,  the  guard’s  horn  sounded: 

Far  away  thro’  the  night  ran  the  lengthen’d  tones  : 
As  the  quick  wheels  brush’d,  and  threw  up  the  dust 
Of  dead  men’s  pulverised  bones. 

Whose  blood  in  its  liveliest  course  would  not  pause 
At  the  strife  of  the  shadowy  wheels, 

The  chattering  of  the  fleshless  jaws, 

And  the  beat  of  the  horny  heels  ? 

Deep  dells  of  snow  sunk  on  each  side  below 
The  highway,  broad  and  flat, 

As  the  coach  ran  on,  and  the  sallow  lights  shone 
Dimly  and  blurly  with  simmering  fat. 

Vast  wastes  of  starless  glooms  were  spread 
Around  in  the  chilling  air, 

And  heads  without  bodies  and  shapes  without  heads 
Went  leaping  here  and  there. 


O Coachee,  Coachee,  what  lights  approach 
With  heavenly  melodies  ? 

Oh ! those  are  the  lights  of  the  Paradise  coach, 
That  so  gaily  meet  their  eyes ! 

With  pleasant  hymns  they  soothe  the  air 
Of  death,  with  songs  of  pride: 

With  sackbut,  and  with  dulcimer, 

With  psaltery  they  ride. 

These  fear  not  the  mists  of  unwholesome  damps 
That  through  that  region  rove, 

For  all  wreath’d  with  green  bays  were  the  gorgeous 
lamps, 

And  a bright  archangel  drove. 


BOYHOOD. 


They  pass’d  (an  inner  spirit  fed 
Their  ever-burning  fires,) 

With  a solemn  burst  of  thrilling  light, 

And  a sound  of  stringed  lyres. 

With  a silver  sound  the  wheels  went  round, 
The  wheels  of  burning  flame ; 

Of  beryl,  and  of  amethyst 
Was  the  spiritual  frame. 

Their  steeds  were  strong  exceedingly : 

And  rich  was  their  attire : 

Before  them  flow’d  a fiery  stream ; 

They  broke  the  ground  with  hoofs  of  fire. 

They  glitter’d  with  a stedfast  light, 

The  happy  spirits  within ; 

As  stars  they  shone,  in  raiment  white, 

And  free  from  taint  of  sin. 


CHAPTER  II* 


CAMBRIDGE. 

1828-1830. 

I past  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  I wore  the  gown ; 

I roved  at  random  thro’  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls  ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  College  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make, 

And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon’d  on  the  panes : 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 

The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ; paced  the  shores 

And  many  a bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same ; and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door : 

I linger’d  ; all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crash’d  the  glass,  and  beat  the  floor ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 

And  labour,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land. 

On  February  20th,  1828,  my  father  and  my  uncle 
Charles  matriculated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
where  their  elder  brother  Frederick  was  already  a dis- 
tinguished scholar,  and  had  won  the  University  medal 
for  the  best  Greek  ode  on  the  Pyramids. 

* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

33 


T.  I. 


3 


34 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 


Of  their  entrance  into  Cambridge,  ■ — my  father  told 
me  that  they  had  left  the  coach  and  were  walking 
down  Trumpington  Street  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
when  a proctor  addressed  him,  “What  are  you  doing 
without  your  cap  and  gown,  sir,  at  this  time  of  night?  ” 
To  which,  not  being  aware  of  the  dignity  of  the  per- 
sonage who  addressed  him,  he  promptly  retorted,  “ I 
should  like  to  know  what  business  it  can  be  of  yours,  sir.” 

They  first  occupied  rooms  at  No.  12  Rose  Crescent, 
moving  afterwards  to  Trumpington  Street,  No.  57  Corpus 
Buildings.  Although  they  knew  but  few  men  when  be- 
ginning their  University  career,  and  were  shy  and  reserved, 
they  soon  joined  themselves  to  a set  of  friends  who 
were  all  more  or  less  remarkable.  At  first  my  father 
writes  to  his  aunt,  Mrs  Russell : “ I am  sitting  owl- 
like and  solitary  in  my  rooms  (nothing  between  me  and 
the  stars  but  a stratum  of  tiles).  The  hoof  of  the  steed, 
the  roll  of  the  wheel,  the  shouts  of  drunken  Gown 
and  drunken  Town  come  up  from  below  with  a sea-like 
murmur.  I wish  to  Heaven  I had  Prince  Hussain’s 
fairy  carpet  to  transport  me  along  the  deeps  of  air  to 
your  coterie.  Nay,  I would  even  take  up  with  his  brother 
Aboul-something’s  glass  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  a peep. 
What  a pity  it  is  that  the  golden  days  of  Faerie  are  over ! 
What  a misery  not  to  be  able  to  consolidate  our  gossa- 
mer dreams  into  reality ! When,  my  dearest  Aunt,  may 
I hope  to  see  you  again  ? I know  not  how  it  is,  but  I 
feel  isolated  here  in  the  midst  of  society.  The  country  is 
so  disgustingly  level,  the  revelry  of  the  place  so  monoto- 
nous, the  studies  of  the  University  so  uninteresting,  so 
much  matter  of  fact.  None  but  dry-headed,  calculating, 
angular  little  gentlemen  can  take  much  delight  in  them. 

I have  been  seeking  ‘ Falkland’  for  a long  time  with- 
out success.  Those  beautiful  extracts  from  it,  which  you 
showed  me  at  Tealby,  haunt  me  incessantly;  but  wishes, 
I think,  like  telescopes  reversed,  seem  to  set  their  objects 
at  a greater  distance.” 


1830]  HIS  APPEARANCE  AND  CHARACTER.  35 

“ I can  tell  you  nothing  of  his  college  days,”  writes 
Edward  Fitzgerald  to  a friend,  “ for  I did  not  know  him 
till  they  were  over,  tho’  I had  seen  him  two  or  three 
times  before : I remember  him  well,  a sort  of  Hyperion.” 
With  his  poetic  nature,  and  warmth  of  heart,  he  soon 
made  his  way.  Fanny  Kemble,  who  used  to  visit  her 
brother  John,  said  of  him  when  at  College,  “Alfred 
Tennyson  was  our  hero,  the  great  hero  of  our  day.” 
Another  friend  describes  him  as  “ Six  feet  high,  broad- 
chested,  strong-limbed,  his  face  Shakespearian,  with  deep 
eyelids,  his  forehead  ample,  crowned  with  dark  wavy 
hair,  his  head  finely  poised,  his  hand  the  admiration  of 
sculptors,  long  fingers  with  square  tips,  soft  as  a child’s 
but  of  great  size  and  strength.  What  struck  one  most 
about  him  was  the  union  of  strength  with  refinement.” 
On  seeing  him  first  come  into  the  Hall  at  Trinity, 
Thompson 1 said  at  once,  “ That  man  must  be  a poet.” 
Arthur  Hallam  “ looked  up  to  him  as  to  a great  poet 
and  an  elder  brother2.” 

Hallam  said  to  Trench  in  1832:  “Alfred’s  mind  is 
what  it  always  was,  or  rather,  brighter,  and  more  vigorous. 
I regret,  with  you,  that  you  have  never  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  knowing  more  of  him.  His  nervous  tempera- 
ment and  habits  of  solitude  give  an  appearance  of 
affectation  to  his  manner,  which  is  no  interpreter  of  the 
man,  and  wears  off  on  further  knowledge.  Perhaps  you 
would  never  become  very  intimate,  for  certainly  your 
bents  of  mind  are  not  the  same,  and  at  some  points  they 
intersect ; yet  I think  you  would  hardly  fail  to  see  much 
for  love,  as  well  as  for  admiration.”  Blakesley  described 
Alfred  as  “Truly  one  of  the  mighty  of  the  earth.” 

The  friends  among  whom  he  lived  were  Spedding 
(author  of  the  Life  of  Bacon),  Milnes  (afterwards  Lord 
Houghton),  Trench  (afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin), 

1 Afterwards  Master  of  Trinity. 

2 A.  H.  Hallam  was  born  on  February  1st,  1811. 

3-2 


36 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 

Alford  (afterwards  Dean  of  Canterbury),  Brookfield, 
Blakesley  (afterwards  Dean  of  Lincoln),  Thompson, 
Stephen  Spring  Rice,  Merivale  (afterwards  Dean  of 
Ely),  J.  M.  Kemble,  Heath  (Senior  Wrangler  1832), 
Charles  Buller,  R.  Monteith,  Tennant,  and  above  all 
Hallam.  Some  summers  ago  my  father  and  I went  to 
see  Hallam  s rooms,  at  No.  3,  G,  New  Court,  in  which 
with  these  friends  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours. 
Of  this  band  of  men  Lord  Houghton  spoke  in  1866  at 
the  opening  of  the  New  Cambridge  Union:  “I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  the  members  of  that  generation 
were,  for  the  wealth  of  their  promise,  a rare  body  of  men 
such  as  this  University  has  seldom  contained.”  They 
were  a genial,  high-spirited,  poetical 1 set,  full  of  speculation 
and  of  enthusiasm  for  the  great  literature  of  the  past,  and 
for  the  modern  schools  of  thought,  and  despised  rhetoric 
and  sentimentalism.  Fitzgerald  comments  thus  in  one 
of  his  unpublished  MS  notes : 

The  German  School,  with  Coleridge,  Julius  Hare,  etc.  to  ex- 
pound, came  to  reform  all  our  notions.  I remember  that  Livy 
and  Jeremy  Taylor  were  the  greatest  poets  next  to  Shakespeare. 
I am  not  sure  if  you  were  not  startled  at  hearing  that  Eutropius 
was  the  greatest  lyric  poet  except  Pindar.  You  hadn’t  known 
he  was  a poet  at  all.  I remember  A.  T.  quoting  Hallam  (the 
great  historian)  as  pronouncing  Shakespeare  “the  greatest  man.” 
I thought  such  dicta  rather  peremptory  for  a philosopher. 
“ Well,”  said  A.  T.,  “ the  man  one  would  wish  perhaps  to  show 
as  a sample  of  mankind  to  those  in  another  planet.”  He  used 
sometimes  to  quote  Milton  as  the  sublimest  of  all  poets,  and  his 
two  similes,  one  about  the  “gunpowder  ore,”  and  the  other  about 
“the  fleet,”  as  the  grandest  of  all  similes.  He  thought  that 
“ ‘ Lycidas  ’ was  a touchstone  of  poetic  taste.”  Of  Dryden,  “ I 
don’t  know  how  it  is,  but  Dryden  always  seems  greater  than  he 
shows  himself  to  be.” 

1 The  modern  poets  in  the  ascendant  among  them  were  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats ; but  Byron’s  “ comet  blaze  ” was  evidently  on 
the  wane. 


HIS  INSIGHT  INTO  CHARACTER. 


37 


1830] 

His  friends  noted  that  my  father  had  from  the  first  a 
deep  insight  into  character,  and  would  often  turn  upon 
them  with  a sudden  terse  criticism  when  they  thought 
him  far  away  in  the  clouds  \ 

Fitzgerald  remembered  that  of  someone  suddenly 
pronouncing  a dogma  he  said,  “ That’s  the  swift  decision 
of  one  who  sees  only  half  the  truth  ” ; 

And  of  a very  different  character,  somewhat  apolo- 
getic, “ There’s  a want  of  central  dignity  in  him.” 

A few  of  his  Cambridge  contemporaries  have  been 
drawn  in  verse  by  him2. 

The  then  well-known  Cambridge  orator  S — was 
partly  described  in  the  poem,  “ A Character.”  He  was 
“ a very  plausible,  parliament-like,  self-satisfied  speaker 
at  the  Union  Debating  Society.” 

Another  verse-portrait  my  father  quoted  to  me, 
which  he  remembered  with  pleasure  that  Hallam  had 
praised : 

1 “We  were  looking  one  day  at  the  portrait  of  an  elderly  politician  in  his 
bland,  family  aspect : A.  T.  (with  his  eye-glass),  4 It  looks  rather  like  a 
retired  panther.1  So  true  ! 11  MS  Note,  E.  F.  G. 

2 Of  Brookfield  he  wrote  in  1875  for  Lord  Lyttelton’s  preface  to  “ Sermons, 
by  the  late  Rev.  William  Henry  Brookfield 11 : 

Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to  mouth  my  rhymes, 

How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St  Mary’s  chimes ! 

How  oft  the  Cantab  supper,  host  and  guest, 

Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  your  jest ! 

How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk  of  limes, 

Him,  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn-golden  times. 

(It  was  of  him  that  the  late  Dr  Thompson  wrote:  — “He  was  far  the 
most  amusing  man  I ever  met,  or  shall  meet.  At  my  age  it  is  not  likely  that 
I shall  ever  again  see  a whole  party  lying  on  the  floor  for  purposes  of 
unrestrained  laughter,  while  one  of  their  number  is  pouring  forth,  with  a 
perfectly  grave  face,  a succession  of  imaginary  dialogues  between  characters, 
real  and  fictitious,  one  exceeding  another  in  humour  and  drollery.”) 

Of  Kemble  my  father  said  in  a sonnet  published  in  1830 : 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  — thou  wilt  be 
A latter  Luther  and  a soldier  priest. 


33 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 


( Unpublished. .) 

Thy  soul  is  like  a landskip,  friend, 

Steeple,  and  stream,  and  forest  lawn, 

Most  delicately  overdrawn 
With  the  first  twilight  of  the  even, 

Clear-edged,  and  showing  every  bend 
Of  each  dark  hill  against  the  Heaven, 

Nor  wanting  many  a sombre  mound, 

Stately  and  mild,  and  all  between 
Valleys  full  of  solemn  sound, 

And  hoary  holts  on  uplands  green, 

And  somewhat  loftier  antient  heights 
Touch’d  with  Heaven’s  latest  lights. 

Of  Blakesleyhe  said,  “He  ought  to  be  Lord  Chancellor, 
for  he  is  a subtle  and  powerful  reasoner,  and  an  honest 
man.”  Blakesley,  he  observed  another  time,  was  honestly 
indignant  at  gaining  the  Chancellor’s  Medal,  which,  he 
asserted,  “ ought  to  have  gone  to  young  Kennedy.” 

Later,  of  James  Spedding  he  remarked,  “ He  was  the 
Pope  among  us  young  men  — the  wisest  man  I know.” 
Of  Hallam  himself,  “ He  would  have  been  known,  if 
he  had  lived,  as  a great  man  but  not  as  a great  poet ; he 
was  as  near  perfection  as  mortal  man  could  be1.” 

Whewell,  who  was  his  tutor,  he  called  “ the  lion-like 
man,”  and  had  for  him  a great  respect.  It  is  reported  that 
Whewell,  recognizing  his  genius,  tolerated  in  him  certain 
informalities  which  he  would  not  have  overlooked  in 
other  men.  Thus,  “ Mr  Tennyson,  what’s  the  compound 
interest  of  a penny  put  out  at  the  Christian  era  up  to 
the  present  time  ? ” was  Whewell’s  good-natured  call  to 

1 “ And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

These  lines  I wrote  from  what  Arthur  Hallam  said  after  reading  of  the 
prominent  ridge  of  bone  over  the  eyes  of  Michael  Angelo : ‘Alfred,  look  over 
my  eyes  ; surely  I have  the  bar  of  Michael  Angelo  !’  ” A.  T. 


WHEWELL. 


39 


1830] 

attention  in  the  Lecture  Room  while  my  father  was 
reading  Virgil  under  the  desk. 

Once,  when  Whewell  had  made  himself  unpopular,  a 
tumult  arose  among  the  undergraduates,  who  lined  the 
street  from  the  Senate  House  to  Trinity  Gate  and  hooted 
him,  shouting  “ Billy  Whistle ! ” (Whewell’s  nickname). 
As  he  passed  between  them,  Hallam,  Spring  Rice,  and 
my  father,  raised  a cheer  for  him.  He  saw  my  father  and 
bade  him  come  instantly  to  his  rooms.  Whewell  began,  “ I 
was  sorry  to  see,  Mr  Tennyson,  that  you  were  at  the  head 
of  that  very  disorderly  mob  outside  the  Senate  House.” 
“ But,”  answered  my  father,  “ my  friends  and  I were  not 
heading  the  mob,  we  were  cheering  you ! ” Whereat 
Whewell  said  nothing,  but  smiled  grimly  to  himself  with 
evident  pleasure,  inviting  him  to  breakfast  next  morning. 

Another  Cambridge  story  about  Whewell,  but  perhaps 
of  later  date,  my  father  would  tell  somewhat  in  this  way. 
At  1 2 o’clock  one  night,  horns  and  trumpets  and  bugles  and 
drums  began  to  play  from  all  the  windows  round  Trinity 
New  Court,  and  a man,  who  had  been  expelled  that  day, 
strummed  on  a piano  which  had  been  set  in  the  middle 
of  the  lawn;  and  there  was  the  fiend’s  own  row.  Presently 
Whewell,  who  lived  in  Nevile’s  Court,  next  to  the  New 
Court,  was  heard  thundering  at  his  door  which  had  been 
tied  with  a rope  ; ‘ TpU  jui v dpegar  Icov  ’ and  at  the  third 
charge  he  broke  through,  rushed  out,  found  all  the 
windows  closed,  lights  extinguished,  dead  silence  every- 
where, only  the  expelled  man  standing  immovable  by  the 
piano  under  a cold  round  moon.  Whewell  strode  to  the 
piano,  the  expelled  man  ran  for  his  life  round  and  round 
the  colonnades  of  Nevile’s  Court;  thrice  he  ran  round, 
Whewell  pursuing.  At  last  Whewell  caught  him.  “ Do 
you  know  who  I am,  sir  ? ” said  Whewell,  panting.  “ Y es,” 
was  the  answer,  “ Old  Whistle,  who  made  that  mistake 
in  his  Dynamics .”  Thereupon  Whewell,  seeing  that  he 
was  the  man  who  had  been  expelled,  took  him  by  the 


CAMBRIDGE. 


40 


[1828- 


scruff  of  the  neck,  carried  him  to  the  great  gate,  and  shot 
him  out  like  bad  rubbish. 

As  a young  man  my  fathers  friends  have  often 
described  him  to  me  as  having  Johnsonian  common 
sense  and  a rare  power  of  expression,  very  genial,  full  of 
enjoyment,  full  of  sensitiveness  and  full  of  humour,  though 
with  the  passionate  heart  of  a poet,  and  sometimes  feeling 
the  melancholy  of  life.  He  passed  through  “ moods  of 
misery  unutterable,”  but  he  eventually  shook  them  off. 
He  remembered  how,  when  in  London  almost  for  the 
first  time,  one  of  these  moods  came  over  him,  as  he 
realized  that  “ in  a few  years  all  its  inhabitants  would  be 
lying  horizontal,  stark  and  stiff  in  their  coffins.” 

Despite  such  passages  of  gloom  he  worked  on  at  his 
poems,  wrote  Latin  and  Greek  odes1,  read  his  classics 

1 Before  he  had  left  Somersby  for  Cambridge,  he  had  written  in  Greek 
hexameters  an  Homeric  book  on  the  Seven  against  Thebes,  and  an  Ovidian 
poem  about  the  death  of  a young  girl  who  had  died  for  love  of  the  Apollo 
Belvedere. 

In  his  note-book,  mixed  up  with  translations  of  Aristophanes,  and  of 
Greek  philosophers,  and  with  astronomical  diagrams,  I find  this  fragment, 
mainly  of  value  as  showing  at  what  an  early  date  physical  science  began  to 
penetrate  his  verse : 

The  Moon.  ( Unpublished  fragment .) 

At-  «A£. 

W W '7v'  *7y*  *7v' 

Deep  glens  I found,  and  sunless  gulfs, 

Set  round  with  many  a toppling  spire, 

And  monstrous  rocks  from  craggy  snouts 
Disploding  globes  of  roaring  fire. 


Large  as  a human  eye  the  sun 

Drew  down  the  West  his  feeble  lights; 

And  then  a night,  all  moons,  confused 
The  shadows  from  the  icy  heights. 

[“  A night,  all  moons,”  means  that  when  seen  from  the  airless  moon  all 
the  principal  stars  and  planets  would  be  very  large  and  bright  in  the  black 
heavens,  and  strike  the  eye  there  as  the  moon  strikes  the  eye  here.] 


HIS  INTEREST  IN  POLITICS. 


41 


1830] 

and  history  and  natural  science  \ He  also  took  a lively 
interest  in  politics.  He  was  among  the  young  supporters 
of  the  Anti-slavery  Convention,  and  advocated  the 
Measure  for  abolishing  subscription  to  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles,  while  admiring  as  statesmen  Canning,  Peel,  and 
the  Duke  of  Wellington.  England  was  in  a state  of  fer- 
ment  with  the  hope  or  dread  of  the  Reform  Bill.  Farms 
were  fired,  ricks  were  burnt,  and  “ sanguine  Lazarus 
felt  a vacant  hand  Fill  ” with  the  rich  man’s  purse. 
In  the  poem  addressed  to  Mary  Boyle  my  father  tells 
how  he  helped  to  “ hand  the  bucket  from  the  well,”  and  to 
quench  a conflagration  in  a homestead  near  Cambridge. 

At  one  of  these  farm  fires  he  heard  a countryman 
saying,  “ Now  we  shall  get  our  taters  cheaper.”  “You 
fools,”  said  my  father,  although  he  largely  sympathized 
with  the  labourers  in  their  demands,  “ you  are  all  going 
the  way  to  make  taters  dearer.”  Some  undergraduates 
with  over-zeal  began  to  pull  down  the  farmer’s  house  in 
order  to  help  him  to  preserve  the  materials  from  fire. 
The  poor  man  held  them  back,  comically  but  naturally 
remonstrating,  “ Leave  me,  sirs,  I pray  you,  the  little 
property  that  the  fire  has  spared  ! ” 

My  father’s  note-book  contains  these  unpublished 
lines : 

I,  loving  Freedom  for  herself, 

And  much  of  that  which  is  her  form, 

Wed  to  no  faction  in  the  state, 

A voice  before  the  storm, 

I mourn  in  spirit  when  I think 

The  year,  that  comes,  may  come  with  shame, 
Lured  by  the  cuckoo-voice  that  loves 
To  babble  its  own  name. 

That  “ deep  chord  which  Hampden  smote  ” pulsed 

1 “ I kept  a tame  snake  in  my  rooms.  I liked  to  watch  his  wonderful  sinu- 
osities on  the  carpet.11  A.  T. 


42 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 

through  the  life  of  the  young  men  of  the  day.  These 
riots  of  the  poorer  classes  filled  my  father  with  an  earnest 
desire  to  do  something  to  help  those  who  lived  in  misery 
among  the  “ warrens  of  the  poor.”  Indeed  from  first  to 
last  he  always  preached  the  onward  progress  of  liberty, 
while  steadily  opposed  to  revolutionary  license  — 

Freedom  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying  while  they 
shout  her  name. 

Asked  what  politics  he  held : “ I am  of  the  same 
politics  as  Shakespeare  \ Bacon,  and  every  sane  man.” 

Carlyle’s  account  of  Sterling  best  describes,  as  far  as 
I can  gather,  the  typical  intellectual  undergraduate  of  my 
father’s  set : who  hated  the  narrow  and  ignorant  Toryism 
to  be  found  in  country  districts  : who  loathed  parties  and 
sects : who  reverenced  the  great  traditions  and  the  great 
men  of  past  ages,  and  eagerly  sympathized  with  the  mis- 
fortunes and  disabilities  of  his  fellow-men. 

He  tells  how  Sterling,  famous  already  for  the 
brilliance  of  his  talk,  had  at  Cambridge  “ a wide  and 
rather  genial  circle  of  comrades.”  They  had  among 
them  a society  called  the  “ Apostles  ” : . of  which  my 
father  was  an  early  member.  “ On  stated  evenings,” 
Carlyle  goes  on,  “ was  much  logic,  and  other  spiritual 
fencing,  and  ingenuous  collision  — probably  of  a really 
superior  quality  in  that  kind ; for  not  a few  of  the 
then  disputants  have  since  proved  themselves  men  of 
parts,  and  attained  distinction  in  the  intellectual  walks 
of  life.” 

It  is  of  the  “Apostles  ” that  Sterling  writes  to  Trench  : 
“ Pray  let  me  see  you  as  soon  as  you  reach  London,  and 

1 u Some  critics,”  he  said  to  me  more  than  once,  “ object  to  Shakespeare’s 
aristocratic  view  of  his  clowns,  because  he  makes  them  talk  such  poor  stuff, 
but  they  forget  that  his  clowns  occasionally  speak  as  real  truths  as  Hamlet, 
and  that  sometimes  they  utter  very  profound  sayings.  That  is  the  glory  of 
Shakespeare,  he  can  give  you  the  incongruity  of  things.” 


43 


1830]  THE  “APOSTLES.” 

in  the  mean  time  commend  me  to  the  brethren,  who,  I 
trust,  are  waxing  daily  in  religion  and  radicalism.” 

Arthur  Hallam,  in  a letter  to  Gladstone,  says  of 
Frederick  Maurice : “ The  effects  which  he  has  pro- 
duced on  the  minds  of  many  at  Cambridge  by  the  single 
creation  of  that  society  of  ‘Apostles  ’ (for  the  spirit  though 
not  the  form  was  created  by  him)  is  far  greater  than  I 
can  dare  to  calculate,  and  will  be  felt,  both  directly  and 
indirectly,  in  the  age  that  is  upon  us.” 

There  were  regular  meetings  of  the  society  as  distin- 
guished from  the  almost  daily  gatherings  in  one  or  another 
man’s  rooms,  at  all  of  which  much  coffee  was  drunk, 
much  tobacco  smoked.  The  Apostle  who  proposed  the 
subject  for  discussion,  generally  stood  before  the  mantel- 
piece, and  said  his  say.  Douglas  Heath  writes  that  the 
image  he  has  carried  away  of  my  father  is  of  one 
“sitting  in  front  of  the  fire,  smoking  and  meditating,  and 
now  and  then  mingling  in  the  conversation.”  With  one 
short  phrase  he  was  wont  to  sum  up  the  issue  of  the 
arguments.  Heath  continues  : “ I cannot  satisfy  myself 
as  to  the  time  when  I became  an  Apostle,  or  when  I 
made  acquaintance  with  A.  T.  My  belief  is  that  he  had 
already  become  an  honorary  member  extraordinary.  In 
the  usual  course  a member  had  to  read  essays  in  regular 
succession,  or  give  a dinner  in  default  during  a certain 
period,  after  which  he  became  honorary.  But  A.  T. 
was,  I suppose,  bored  by  this,  and  the  society  was  con- 
tent to  receive  him,  his  poetry  and  wisdom  unfettered.” 
“ Ghosts  ” was  the  subject  of  an  essay  written  by  my 
father  for  the  Society,  but  he  was  too  shy  to  deliver  it. 
The  preface  alone  has  survived1. 

These  friends  not  only  debated  on  politics  but  read 
their  Hobbes,  Locke,  Berkeley,  Butler,  Hume,  Bentham, 
Descartes  and  Kant,  and  discussed  such  questions  as 
the  Origin  of  Evil,  the  Derivation  of  Moral  Senti- 

1 For  the  prologue  of  “ Ghosts 11  see  Appendix,  p.  497. 


44 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[ 1828- 

men  ts,  Prayer  and  the  Personality  of  God1.  Among 
the  Cambridge  papers  I find  a remarkable  sentence  on 
“ Prayer”  by  Arthur  Hallam. 

With  respect  to  prayer,  you  ask  how  am  I to  distinguish  the 
operations  of  God  in  me  from  motions  in  my  own  heart  ? Why 
should  you  distinguish  them  or  how  do  you  know  there  is  any 
distinction  ? Is  God  less  God  because  He  acts  by  general  laws 
when  He  deals  with  the  common  elements  of  nature  ?... That 
fatal  mistake  which  has  embarrassed  the  philosophy  of  mind 
with  infinite  confusion,  the  mistake  of  setting  value  on  a thing’s 
origin  rather  than  on  its  character,  of  assuming  that  composite 
must  be  less  excellent  than  simple,  has  not  been  slow  to  extend 
its  deleterious  influence  over  the  field  of  practical  religion. 

My  father  seems  to  have  propounded  in  some  college 
discussion  the  theory,  that  the  “ development  of  the 
human  body  might  possibly  be  traced  from  the  radiated, 
vermicular,  molluscous  and  vertebrate  organisms.”  The 
question  of  surprise  put  to  him  on  this  proposition  was 
“ Do  you  mean  that  the  human  brain  is  at  first  like  a 
madrepore’s,  then  like  a worm’s,  etc.  ? but  this  cannot  be 
for  they  have  no  brain2.” 

At  this  time,  with  one  or  two  of  his  more  literary 
friends,  he  took  great  interest  in  the  work  which  Hallam 
had  undertaken,  a translation  from  the  Vita  Nuova  of 

1 Three  questions  discussed  by  the  Society  were:  (i)  Have  Shelley’s 
poems  an  immoral  tendency  ? Tennyson  votes  “No.”  (2)  Is  an  intelligible 

First  Cause  deducible  from  the  phenomena  of  the  Universe  ? Tennyson 
votes  “No.”  (3)  Is  there  any  rule  of  moral  action  beyond  general 

expediency  ? Tennyson  votes  “ Aye.” 

1 have  a note  to  my  father  from  Tennant  saying:  “Last  Saturday  we 
had  an  Apostolic  dinner  when  we  had  the  honour,  among  other  things,  of 
drinking  your  health.  Edmund  Lushington  and  I went  away  tolerably 
early;  but  most  of  them  stayed  till  past  two.  John  Heath  volunteered  a 
song ; Kemble  got  into  a passion  about  nothing  but  quickly  jumped  out 
again ; Blakesley  was  afraid  the  Proctor  might  come  in ; and  Thompson 
poured  large  quantities  of  salt  upon  Douglas  Heath’s  head  because  he  talked 
nonsense.” 

2 Letter  from  A.  H.  Hallam.  Most  of  his  philosophical  and  religious 
letters  to  my  father  have  been  lost. 


HALLAM  AND  DANTE. 


45 


1830] 

Dante,  with  notes  and  prefaces.  For  this  task  Hallam, 
who  in  1827  had  been  in  Italy  with  his  parents  and  had 
drunk  deep  of  the  older  Italian  literature,  says  that  he 
was  perfecting  himself  in  German  and  Spanish,  and  was 
proposing  to  plunge  into  the  Florentine  historians  and 
the  medieval  Schoolmen.  He  writes  to  my  father:  “I 
expect  to  glean  a good  deal  of  knowledge  from  you 
concerning  metres  which  may  be  serviceable,  as  well  for 
my  philosophy  in  the  notes  as  for  my  actual  handiwork 
in  the  text.  I purpose  to  discuss  considerably  about 
poetry  in  general,  and  about  the  ethical  character  of 
Dante’s  poetry.” 

My  father  said  of  his  friend : “ Arthur  Hallam  could 
take  in  the  most  abstruse  ideas  with  the  utmost  rapidity 
and  insight,  and  had  a marvellous  power  of  work  and 
thought,  and  a wide  range  of  knowledge.  On  one 
occasion,  I remember,  he  mastered  a difficult  book  of 
Descartes  at  a single  sitting.” 

On  June  6th,  1829,  the  announcement  was  made  that 
my  father  had  won  the  prize  medal  for  his  poem  in  blank 
verse  on  “Timbuctoo 1.”  To  win  the  prize  in  anything 


1 From  Somersby,  after  his  father’s  death  (1831  probably),  he  wrote  to 
the  printer  Metcalfe,  who  had  asked  permission  to  include  “ Timbuctoo  ” in 
a collection  of  Cambridge  Prize  Poems  : 

Somersby. 

Sir,  As  you  intend  to  reprint  the  Cambridge  Prize  Poems,  it  would 
seem  odd  to  leave  mine  out,  tho’  for  my  own  part  I had  much  rather  you 
had  not  thought  of  it.  Prize  Poems  (without  any  exception  even  in  favour 
of  Mr.  Milman’s  “Belvedere”)  are  not  properly  speaking  “Poems”  at  all,  and 
ought  to  be  forgotten  as  soon  as  recited,  I could  have  wished  that  poor 
“ Timbuctoo  ” might  have  been  suffered  to  slide  quietly  off,  with  all  its  errors, 
into  forgetfulness : however  as  I do  not  expect  to  turn  you  from  your 
purpose  of  republishing  the  pe  ps,  I suppose  mine  must  be  printed  along  with 
them:  only  for  “cones  of  Pyramids,”  which  is  nonsense  (p.  io),  I will  thank 
you  to  substitute  “peaks  of  Pyramids.” 

I am,  Sir,  yours  truly, 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

(As  the  poem  is  now  published  this  is  the  sole  correction.  My  father 
would  say,  “‘The  Lover’s  Tale’  and  ‘Timbuctoo’  are  in  no  way  imitative  of 


46 


CAMBRIDGE. 


but  rhymed  heroics  was  an  innovation.  My  grandfather 
had  desired  him  to  compete,  so  unwillingly  he  patched 
up  an  old  poem  on  “ The  Battle  of  Armageddon,”  and 
came  out  prizeman  over  Milnes,  Hallam  and  others. 

Charles  Wordsworth  (afterwards  Bishop  of  St  An- 
drews) writes  to  his  brother  Christopher  Wordsworth, 
Sept.  4th,  1829  (see  Annals  of  my  Early  Life , C. 
Wordsworth,  1890): 

What  do  you  think  of  Tennyson’s  Prize  poem  (“  Timbuctoo  ”)  ? 
If  such  an  exercise  had  been  sent  up  at  Oxford,  the  author 
would  have  had  a better  chance  of  being  rusticated,  with  the 
view  of  his  passing  a few  months  at  a Lunatic  Asylum,  than  of 
obtaining  the  prize.  It  is  certainly  a wonderful  production  ; and 
if  it  had  come  out  with  Lord  Byron’s  name,  it  would  have  been 
thought  as  fine  as  anything  he  ever  wrote. 

Arthur  Hallam  writes,  Sept.  14th,  1829,  to  W.  E. 
Gladstone : 

I am  glad  you  liked  my  queer  piece  about  Timbuctoo.  I 
wrote  it  in  a sovereign  vein  of  poetic  scorn  for  anybody’s  opinion, 
who  did  not  value  Plato  and  Milton  just  as  much  as  I did.  The 
natural  consequence  was  that  ten  people  out  of  twelve  laughed 
or  opened  large  eyes ; and  the  other  two  set  about  praising 
highly,  what  was  plainly  addressed  to  them,  not  to  people  in 
general.  So  my  vanity  would  fain  persuade  me,  that,  like  some 
of  my  betters,  I “fit  audience  found,  tho’  few.”  My  friend 
Tennyson’s  poem,  which  got  the  prize,  will  be  thought  by  the 
ten  sober  persons  afore-mentioned  twice  as  absurd  as  mine;  and 
to  say  the  truth,  by  striking  out  his  prose  argument,  the 
Examiners  have  done  all  in  their  power  to  verify  the  concluding 
words,  “All  was  night.”  The  splendid  imaginative  power  that 
pervades  it  will  be  seen  through  all  hindrances.  I consider 
Tennyson  as  promising  fair  to  be  the  greatest  poet  of  our 
generation,  perhaps  of  our  century. 

any  poet,  and,  as  far  as  I know,  nothing  of  mine  after  the  date  of 1 Timbuctoo’ 
was  imitative.  As  for  being  original,  nothing  can  be  said  which  has  not 
been  said  in  some  form  or  another  before.”) 


1830 ] “timbuctoo.”  47 

I asked  Dean  Merivale,  last  survivor,  except  Douglas 
Heath,  of  that  Cambridge  set,  to  give  me  his  recollec- 
tions. He  answered : 

Believe  me  that  I have  not  written  a letter  for  several 
months,  but  you  will,  I am  sure,  allow  me  to  make  this  excep- 
tion to  your  very  kind  note.  I only  wish  I could  give  you  any 
accurate  recollection  of  your  honoured  father  which  would  be 
worthy  of  your  acceptance  on  such  an  occasion.  You  have  seen, 
no  doubt,  the  many  contemporary  diaries  of  those  who  rejoice 
to  set  down  their  reminiscences  of  so  great  and  so  loveable 
a member  of  their  set.... May  I be  excused  for  recording  a 
recollection  of  which  I was  proud  — that  of  being  allowed  or 
enjoined  by  the  Vice-Chancellor  to  declaim  his  “ Timbuctoo 1 ” in 
the  Senate  House  in  the  summer  of  1829,  which  he  declined  to 
do  from  the  modesty  which  too  often  beset  him  ? 

The  Dean  also  enclosed  the  following  letter,  written, 
my  father  said,  “ under  a horror  of  publicity  ” which  made 
him  “ feel  as  Cowper  did.” 


July  29 th,  1829. 

My  dear  Merivale, 

Will  you  write  and  tell  me  whether  you  can 
read  my  poem  at  Commencement  or  not,  since  I must 
come  up  to  Cambridge  if  you  cannot  ? I hope  you  found 
my  letter  sufficiently  clear  relatively  to  corrections.  The 
Vice-Chancellor  observed  to  me,  “We  cannot  do  these 
things  quite  so  well  by  proxy  as  with  the  person  himself, 
to  whom  several  of  my  objections  might  have  been  stated 
and  answered  immediately.”  I hope  you  have  somewhat 
recovered  from  the  shock  of  your  grandmother’s  sudden 
death.  I consider  it  as  rather  remarkable  that  on  the 
morning  when  we  were  at  Hampstead  I seemed  to  myself 
to  have  some  presentiment  of  it,  and  could  not  shake  the 
idea  from  my  mind,  though  I could  not  give  utterance  to 

1 Matthew  Arnold  told  G.  L.  Craik  that  when,  as  a youth,  he  first  read 
“ Timbuctoo  ” he  prophesied  the  greatness  of  Tennyson. 


48 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 

it ; you  remember  my  asking  you  whether  either  of  your 
grandmothers  was  dead,  and  telling  you  that  both  mine 
were. 

Believe  me,  dear  Merivale, 

Yours  most  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 

In  1829  my  uncle  Charles  won  a Bell  Scholarship  by 
the  beauty  of  his  translations.  One  sentence  survived 
in  my  father’s  memory : 

“ And  the  ruddy  grape  shall  droop  from  the  desert 
thorn.” 

The  brothers  Charles  and  Alfred  would  humorously 
describe  how  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  was  played  by 
their  friends  in  March,  1830.  Kemble  as  Dogberry, 
Hallam  as  Verges,  Milnes  as  Beatrice.  When  Beatrice 
sat  down,  her  weight  was  such  that  she  crashed  through 
the  couch,  and  sank  on  the  floor,  nothing  to  be  seen 
but  a heap  of  petticoats,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of 
the  players  and  the  immeasurable  laughter  of  the  spec- 
tators. The  incident  used  to  remind  my  father  by 
contrast  of  Kemble’s  observation  to  someone  who  was 
playing  the  part  of  Falstaff,  “ Pooh,  you  should  see  my 
sister:  she  does  Falstaff  better  than  any  man  living/' 
My  father,  I may  add,  was  famous  in  some  parts  of 
Shakespeare,  especially  in  Malvolio. 

In  certain  College  rooms  he  was  often  asked  to  de- 
claim the  many  ballads  which  he  knew  by  heart,  “ Clerke 
Saunders,”  “ Helen  of  Kirkconnel,”  “ May  Margaret,” 
and  others:  and  also  his  own  poems  “The  Hesperides,” 
“The  Lover’s  Tale”  (written  1827),  “The  Coach  of 
Death  ” ; and  he  would  improvise  verses  by  the  score  full 
of  lyrical  passion.  I quote  again  from  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald: “‘Oriana’  Tennyson  used  to  repeat  in  a way 
not  to  be  forgotten  at  Cambridge  tables.” 

For  his  exercise  he  either  rowed,  or  fenced,  or  took 


1830]  “ POEMS,  CHIEFLY  LYRICAL.”  49 

long  walks,  and  would  go  any  distance  to  see  “a  bubbling 
brook.”  “ Somehow,”  he  would  say,  “ water  is  the 
element  I love  best  of  all  the  four.” 

His  first  volume,  Poems , chiefly  Lyrical ’ was  pub- 
lished in  1830  by  Effingham  Wilson,  also  the  publisher 
of  Robert  Browning’s  Paracelsus . Favourable  reviews 
appeared  by  Sir  John  Bowring  in  the  Westminster,  by 
Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Tatler,  and  by  Arthur  Hallam  in 
the  Englishman  s Magazine . 

The  Westminster  article  (January  1831)  contained 
this  prophetic  notice  of  “ The  Poet  ” : 

If  our  estimate  of  Mr  Tennyson  be  correct,  he  too  is  a poet; 
and  many  years  hence  may  he  read  his  juvenile  description  of 
that  character  with  the  proud  consciousness  that  it  has  become 
the  description  and  history  of  his  own  work. 

Arthur  Hallam ’s  enthusiasm  was  worthy  of  his  true 
and  unselfish  friendship,  and  helped  my  father  through 
the  years  of  darkness  and  disparagement  that  were  soon 
to  come. 

There  is  a strange  earnestness  in  his  worship  of  beauty 
which  throws  a charm  over  his  impassioned  song,  more  easily 
felt  than  described,  and  not  to  be  escaped  by  those  who  have 
once  felt  it... .The  features  of  original  genius  are  clearly  and 
strongly  marked.  The  author  imitates  no  one ; we  recognize 
the  spirit  of  his  age,  but  not  the  individual  form  of  this  or  that 
writer.  His  thoughts  bear  no  more  resemblance  to  Byron  or 
Scott,  Shelley  or  Coleridge,  than  to  Homer  or  Calderon,  Firdusi 
or  Calidasa.  We  have  remarked  five  distinctive  excellencies 
of  his  own  manner.  First,  his  luxuriance  of  imagination,  and 
at  the  same  time  his  control  over  it.  Secondly,  his  power  of 
embodying  himself  in  ideal  characters,  or  rather  moods  of 
character,  with  such  accuracy  of  adjustment  that  the  circum- 
stances of  the  narrative  seem  to  have  a natural  correspondence 
with  the  predominant  feeling  and,  as  it  were,  to  be  evolved  from 
it  by  assimilative  force.  Thirdly,  his  vivid,  picturesque  delinea- 
tion of  objects,  and  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  he  holds  all  of 
them  fused,  to  borrow  a metaphor  from  science,  in  a medium  of 


T.  I. 


4 


50 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[1828- 

strong  emotion.  Fourthly,  the  variety  of  his  lyrical  measures 
and  the  exquisite  modulation  of  harmonious  words  and  cadences 
to  the  swell  and  fall  of  the  feelings  expressed.  Fifthly,  the 
elevated  habits  of  thought,  implied  in  these  compositions,  and 
importing  a mellow  soberness  of  tone,  more  impressive  to  our 
minds  than  if  the  author  had  drawn  up  a set  of  opinions  in 
verse,  and  sought  to  instruct  the  understanding  rather  than  to 
communicate  the  love  of  beauty  to  the  heart. 

Coleridge1,  indeed,  for  whose  prose  my  father  never 
much  cared,  but  to  whose  poetry,  especially  “ Kubla 
Khan,”  “ The  Ancient  Mariner,”  and  “ Christabel,”  he 
was  devoted,  was  more  reserved  in  his  praise  about 
the  first  two  ventures : 

I have  not  read  through  all  Mr  Tennyson’s  poems,  which 
have  been  sent  to  me ; but  I think  there  are  some  things  of  a 
good  deal  of  beauty  in  what  I have  seen.  The  misfortune  is, 
that  he  has  begun  to  write  verses  without  very  well  understand- 
ing what  metre  is  2. 


“ The  first  ‘ Mariana  ’ and  the  ‘ Arabian  Nights  ’ 
were  the  two  poems  that  marked  the  volume  (1830)  as 
something  to  be  thought  about.”  “ The  affectation  ” (in 

1 Arthur  Hallam  visited  Coleridge  at  Highgate  and  wrote  about  him  in 
his  poem  of  “ Timbuctoo  ” : 

“Methought  I saw  a face  whose  every  line 
Wore  the  pale  cast  of  thought,  a good  old  man, 

Most  eloquent,  who  spake  of  things  divine. 

Around  him  youths  were  gather’d,  who  did  scan 
His  countenance  so  grand  and  mild,  and  drank 
The  sweet  sad  tears  of  wisdom.” 

2 Concerning  this  criticism  my  father  said  in  1890:  “Coleridge  did  not 
know  much  about  my  poems,  for  he  confounded  Charles  and  me.  From 
what  I have  heard  he  may  have  read  Glen-river  in  1 above  the  loud 
Glenriver,’  and  tendril-twine  in  the  line  ‘ mantled  with  flowering  ten- 
driltwine’  dactyl ically ; because  I had  an  absurd  antipathy  to  hyphens, 
and  put  two  words  together  as  one  word.  If  that  was  the  case,  he  might 
well  have  wished  that  I had  more  sense  of  metre.  But  so  I,  an  old  man, 
who  get  a poem  or  poems  every  day,  might  cast  a casual  glance  at  a book, 
and  seeing  something  which  I could  not  scan  or  understand,  might  possibly 
decide  against  the  book  without  further  consideration.” 


OPINIONS  OF  FRIENDS. 


51 


i83o] 

the  volume),  E.  F.  G.  adds,  “ was  not  of  the  man ; but 
of  the  time  and  society  he  lived  in,  and  from  which  he 
had  not  yet  emerged  to  his  proper  and  distinct  altitude. 
Two  years  afterwards  he  took  his  ground  with  ‘ The 
Miller’s  Daughter,’  ‘ Palace  of  Art,’  ‘ Dream  of  Fair 
Women,’  etc.” 

On  the  appearance  of  the  poems  Hallam  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  my  grandmother: 


My  dear  Madam, 

As  I have  at  last  the  pleasure  of  sending  to  Alfred 
his  long-expected  book,  I take  this  opportunity  of  begging  that 
you  will  accept  from  me  a copy  of  some  poems  which  I originally 
intended  to  have  published  in  the  same  volume.  To  this  joint 
publication,  as  a sort  of  seal  of  our  friendship,  I had  long  looked 
forward  with  a delight  which  I believe  was  no  way  selfish.  But 
there  are  reasons  which  have  obliged  me  to  change  my  intention, 
and  withdraw  my  own  share  of  the  work  from  the  Press.  One 
of  these  was  the  growing  conviction  of  the  exceeding  crudeness 
of  style  which  characterized  all  my  earlier  attempts.... I have 
little  reason  to  apprehend  your  wasting  much  time  over  that 
book,  when  I send  you  along  with  it  such  a treasure  in  your 
son’s  poetry.  He  is  a true  and  thorough  poet,  if  ever  there  was 
one ; and  tho’  I fear  his  book  is  far  too  good  to  be  popular,  yet 
I have  full  faith  that  he  has  thrown  out  sparks  that  will  kindle 
somewhere,  and  will  vivify  young  generous  hearts  in  the  days  that 
are  coming  to  a clearer  perception  of  what  is  beautiful  and  good. 

Believe  me  yours  very  sincerely, 

A.  H.  Hallam. 

During  the  summer  my  father  joined  Arthur  Hallam, 
and  both  started  off  for  the  Pyrenees,  with  money  for  the 
insurgent  allies  of  Torrijos,  — a noble,  accomplished,  truth- 
ful man,  worthy  to  be  a leader.  He  it  was  who  had 
raised  the  standard  of  revolt  against  the  Inquisition  and 
the  tyranny  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  Spain.  Alfred  and 


52 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 

Arthur  held  a secret  meeting  with  the  heads  of  the 
conspiracy  on  the  Spanish  border,  and  were  not  heard 
of  by  their  friends  for  some  weeks  \ 

John  Frere  and  James  Spedding  wrote  to  my  uncle 
Charles  inquiring  about  them,  and  about  my  grandfather 
who  was  also  abroad,  and  he  answers : 

To  John  Frere . 

Somersby,  July  27 th,  1830. 

From  Hallam  I heard  just  now:  he  complains  rather  of  the 
heat,  and  says  Alfred  is  delighted  with  his  journey,  though 
regretting  the  impermanence  of  his  impressions  in  the  hurry  of 
travel.  My  father  has  returned  from  his  tour  and  I am  much 
surprised  to  see  him  so  well  after  the  neck-break  adventures  he 
has  encountered.  On  one  occasion,  proceeding  along  in  a small 
carriage  over  the  mountains,  he  was  hurled  down  a precipice 
and  stunned,  but  saved  himself  from  certain  death  by  convul- 
sively grasping  a pine  that  grew  out  of  a ledge  : while  the  driver, 
carriage  and  horse  were  dashed  to  atoms  thousands  of  feet  below 
him.  Again,  at  the  Carnival  in  Rome,  a man  was  stilettoed  in 
his  arms,  drawing  first  suspicion  and  then  violence  on  his  person  : 
the  excess  of  which  he  prevented  by  exclaiming  that  he  was  an 
Englishman  and  had  not  done  the  deed.  Again,  he  was  suddenly 
seized  with  giddiness  on  the  verge  of  a precipice,  and  only  pre- 
served by  the  presence  of  mind  of  a person  near  him.  At 
another  (time)  he  was  near  being  buried  alive. 

To  James  Spedding . 

I expect  the  travellers  home  every  day ; I heard  twice  from 
Hallam,  who  mentioned  the  middle  of  September  as  the  most 
probable  period  of  their  return,  but  a dozen  counter-resolutions 
may  come  athwart  their  homeward  intention  even  yet  for  what  I 
know.  Hallam’s  last  letter  was  dated  from  Cauteretz,  Dep4.  des 
Hautes  Pyrenees,  but  from  what  he  there  intimated  of  return 
about  this  time,  it  would  be  foolish  in  you  to  hazard  your  good 
things  in  an  epistle  directed  thither.  The  said  Hallam  or  one  of 


1 No  further  information  upon  this  business  has  been  preserved. 


THE  SPANISH  INSURRECTION. 


53 


1830] 

his  fellow-travellers,  it  should  seem,  wrote  a letter  to  Tennant 
with  full  intention,  I guess,  of  its  getting  further  than  Perpignan ; 
but  Tennant  a short  time  back  informed  me  that  he  had  received 
a communication  from  les  Administrateurs  de  la  Poste,  adver- 
tising him  of  a letter  which  had  taken  up  its  abode  at  Perpignan 
on  account  of  its  not  being  paid  to  the  coast.  What  news  it 
contained  “ no  one  dreameth,”  or  whether  it  was  written  previous 
or  subsequent  to  my  last  receipts  from  the  Continent.  Kemble 
is  said  to  be  at  Gibraltar.  Trench  either  on  the  way  thither  or 
arrived,  and  Hallam  expressed  some  apprehensions  on  the  score 
of  their  safety,  but  I hope  with  you  there  is  not  much  fear  in  the 
present  posture  of  things.  Thank  you  for  sending  Southey  my 
sonnets,  thank  you  for  cheering  my  heart  with  the  worthy  man’s 
good  opinion,  and  thank  you  for  your  letter  and  address. 

Before  going  further  it  may  be  as  well  to  pick  up  the 
threads  of  the  story  of  this  Spanish  insurrection.  Torrijos 
the  leader  had  hoped  to  restore  such  a measure  of  freedom 
as  the  Cortes  had  secured  for  Spain,  in  the  Constitution 
which  had  been  framed  after  the  Peninsular  War.  This 
was  the  Constitution  to  which  Ferdinand  had  sworn  when 
he  returned  from  his  long  captivity  in  Bayonne,  but  which 
he  speedily  renounced,  dissolving  the  Cortes  and  restor- 
ing the  Inquisition.  In  1820,  revolution  having  followed 
revolution,  the  Cortes  met  again,  under  protection  of 
part  of  the  army,  and  the  Inquisition  was  abolished. 
This  state  of  things  did  not  last.  In  1823  Ferdinand 
was,  by  help  of  the  Due  d’Angouleme,  proclaimed  abso- 
lute King.  Again  despotism  prevailed.  Many  Liberals 
fled  to  England.  Of  these  Carlyle  gives  a pathetic 
description  as  they  were  seen,  chiefly  about  Euston 
Square  and  the  new  Church  of  St  Pancras  — “ stately 
tragic  figures,  in  proud  threadbare  cloaks,”  who  had 
acknowledged  General  Torrijos  as  their  chief.  A fiery 
sympathy  had  been  kindled  in  the  hearts  of  many  of  the 
“Apostles  ” by  this  romantic  band  : some  of  whom  had, 
after  seven  years’  banishment,  “ got  shipping  as  private 
passengers  in  one  craft  or  the  other ; and,  by  degrees 


54 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 

or  at  once,  arrived  all  at  Gibraltar;  — Boyd  (Sterling’s 
cousin),  one  or  two  young  democrats  of  Regent  Street, 
the  fifty  picked  Spaniards,  and  Torrijos1.” 

Among  the  Pyrenean  revolutionists  met  by  Arthur 
Hallam  and  my  father  the  chief  man  was  one  Senor 
Ojeda,  who  informed  them  that  he  desired  “ couper  la 
gorge  a tous  les  cures,”  then  clapping  his  hand  on  his 
heart  murmured  “ mais  vous  connaissez  mon  cceur  ” — 
“ and  a pretty  black  one  it  is,”  thought  my  father. 

After  the  travellers  had  returned,  a report  reached 
Somersby  that  John  Kemble,  who  had  joined  the  insur- 
gents in  the  South,  had  been  caught  and  was  to  be  tried 
for  his  life.  Away  my  father  posted  for  miles  in  the 
early  dawn  to  try  and  find  someone  of  authority  at 
Lincoln  or  elsewhere,  who  knew  the  Consul  at  Cadiz 
and  would  help  him  to  save  his  friend.  The  report 
turned  out  to  be  untrue  and  Kemble  came  back  safe 
and  sound. 

But  on  the  last  night  of  November,  1831,  Torrijos 
and  his  gallant  companions  left  Gibraltar  in  two  small 
vessels ; the  British  Governor,  on  occasion  of  the  fresh 
rising  of  General  Mina  against  Spanish  despotism,  having 
intimated  that  Gibraltar  must  not  shelter  rebels  against 
Spain. 

They  set  sail  for  Malaga,  were  chased  by  Spanish 
guardships,  and  ran  ashore  at  Fuengirola  near  Malaga. 
They  barricaded  themselves  in  a farm-house,  were  sur- 
rounded by  vastly  superior  forces  and  compelled  to  sur- 
render. 

All  the  fifty-six  (Boyd  among  them)  perished  by 
military  execution  on  the  Esplanade  of  Malaga2. 


My  father  returned  from  the  expedition  in  improved 
health.  From  this  time  forward  the  lonely  Pyrenean 

1 Carlyle’s  John  Sterling , p.  64  (ed.  1871). 

2 Carlyle’s  John  Sterling , p.  77. 


RETURN  TO  ENGLAND. 


55 


1830] 

peaks,  the  mountains  with  “ their  streaks  of  virgin  snow,” 
like  the  Maladetta,  mountain  “ lawns  and  meadow- 
ledges  midway  down,”  and  the  “long  brook  falling 
thro’  the  clov’n  ravine,”  were  a continual  source  of 
inspiration ; he  had  written  part  of  “ GEnone  ” in  the 
valley  of  Cauteretz.  His  sojourn  there  was  also  com- 
memorated one  and  thirty  years  afterwards  in  “ All 
along  the  Valley.” 

He  came  home  impressed  with  the  “ lightheartedness  ” 
of  the  French ; but,  infinitely  preferring  the  freer  air 
of  England,”  he  writes : “ Someone  says  that  nothing 
strikes  a traveller  more  on  returning  from  the  Continent 
than  the  look  of  an  English  country  town.  Houses  not 
so  big,  nor  such  rows  of  them  as  abroad,  but  each  man’s 
house  little  or  big  distinct  from  one  another,  his  own 
castle,  built  according  to  his  own  means  and  fancy,  and 
so  indicating  the  Englishman’s  free  individual  humour. 
I am  struck  on  returning  from  France  with  the  look  of 
good  sense  in  the  London  people1.” 

Unpublished  Poem,  1828. 

By  a Brook . 

Townsmen,  or  of  the  hamlet,  young  or  old, 
Whithersoever  you  may  wander  now, 

Where’er  you  roam  from,  would  you  waste  an  hour, 
Or  sleep  thro’  one  brief  dream  upon  the  grass, 
Pause  here.  The  murmurs  of  the  rivulet, 

Rippling  by  cressy  isles  or  bars  of  sand, 

Are  pleasant  from  the  early  Spring  to  when, 

Full  fields  of  barley  shifting  tearful  lights 
On  growing  spears,  by  fits  the  lady  ash 
With  twinkling  finger  sweeps  her  yellow  keys. 


1 Quoted  from  MS  by  E.  F.  G.  (date  of  letter  uncertain). 


56 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 


Unpublished  Poems,  written  (1828-1831)  at 
Cambridge.* 

Anacaona . 

[My  father  liked  this  poem  but  did  not  publish  it,  because  the  natural 
history  and  the  rhymes  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  evidently  chose  words 
which  sounded  well,  and  gave  a tropical  air  to  the  whole,  and  he  did 
not  then  care,  as  in  his  later  poems,  for  absolute  accuracy.] 

I 

A dark  Indian  maiden, 

Warbling  in  the  bloom’d  liana, 

Stepping  lightly  flower-laden, 

By  the  crimson-eyed  anana, 

Wantoning  in  orange  groves 

Naked,  and  dark-limb’d,  and  gay, 

Bathing  in  the  slumbrous  coves, 

In  the  cocoa-shadow  cl  coves, 

Of  sunbright  Xaraguay, 

Who  was  so  happy  as  Anacaona, 

The  beauty  of  Espagnola, 

The  golden  flower  of  Hayti  ? 

2 

All  her  loving  childhood 

Breezes  from  the  palm  and  canna 
Fann’d  this  queen  of  the  green  wildwood, 

Lady  of  the  green  Savannah : 

All  day  long  with  laughing  eyes, 

Dancing  by  a palmy  bay, 

In  the  wooded  paradise, 

The  cedar-wooded  paradise 
Of  still  Xaraguay: 

None  were  so  happy  as  Anacaona, 

The  beauty  of  Espagnola, 

The  golden  flower  of  Hayti ! 

* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


1830]  “ AN  AC  AON  A.” 

3 

In  the  purple  island, 

Crown’d  with  garlands  of  cinchona, 

Lady  over  wood  and  highland, 

The  Indian  queen,  Anacaona, 

Dancing  on  the  blossomy  plain 
To  a woodland  melody : 

Playing  with  the  scarlet  crane1, 

The  dragon-fly  and  scarlet  crane, 

Beneath  the  papao  tree  ! 

Happy,  happy  was  Anacaona, 

The  beauty  of  Espagnola, 

The  golden  flower  of  Hayti ! 

4 

The  white  man’s  white  sail,  bringing 
To  happy  Hayti  the  new-comer, 

Over  the  dark  sea-marge  springing, 

Floated  in  the  silent  summer: 

Then  she  brought  the  guava  fruit, 

With  her  maidens  to  the  bay; 

She  gave  them  the  yuccaroot, 

Maizebread  and  the  yuccaroot, 

Of  sweet  Xaraguay : 

Happy,  happy  Anacaona, 

The  beauty  of  Espagnola, 

The  golden  flower  of  Hayti ! 

5 

Naked,  without  fear,  moving 
To  her  Areyto’s  mellow  ditty, 

Waving  a palm  branch,  wondering,  loving, 
Carolling  “Happy,  happy  Hayti!” 

She  gave  the  white  men  welcome  all, 

With  her  damsels  by  the  bay ; 

1 Perhaps  the  scarlet  ibis,  guava  rubra , not  now  known  to  visit  Hayti. 


58 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 

For  they  were  fair-faced  and  tall, 

They  were  more  fair-faced  and  tall, 

Than  the  men  of  Xaraguay, 

And  they  smiled  on  Anacaona, 

The  beauty  of  Espagnola, 

The  golden  flower  of  Hayti ! 

6 

Following  her  wild  carol 

She  led  them  down  the  pleasant  places, 
For  they  were  kingly  in  apparel, 

Loftily  stepping  with  fair  faces. 

But  never  more  upon  the  shore 
Dancing  at  the  break  of  day, 

In  the  deep  wood  no  more,  — 

By  the  deep  sea  no  more,  — 

No  more  in  Xaraguay 
Wander’d  happy  Anacaona, 

The  beauty  of  Espagnola, 

The  golden  flower  of  Hayti ! 


The  Lark . 

Full  light  aloft  doth  the  laverock  spring 
From  under  the  deep,  sweet  corn, 

And  chants  in  the  golden  wakening 
Athwart  the  bloomy  morn. 

What  aileth  thee,  O bird  divine, 

That  thou  singest  with  main  and  with  might? 

Is  thy  mad  brain  drunk  with  the  merry,  red  wine, 
At  the  very  break  of  light  ? 

It  is  not  good  to  drink  strong  wine 
Ere  the  day  be  well-nigh  done ; 

But  thou  hast  drunk  of  the  merry,  sweet  wine, 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun. 


OTHER  UNPUBLISHED  VERSES. 


59 


1830] 

Some  verses  of  “ Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guine- 
vere ” were  handed  about  at  Cambridge  among  my 
father’s  contemporaries.  The  following  unpublished 
lines  were  among  them,  and  kept  by  Edward  Fitzgerald : 

Life  of  the  Life  within  my  blood, 

Light  of  the  Light  within  mine  eyes, 

The  May  begins  to  breathe  and  bud, 

And  softly  blow  the  balmy  skies ; 

Bathe  with  me  in  the  fiery  flood, 

And  mingle  kisses,  tears,  and  sighs, 

Life  of  the  Life  within  my  blood, 

Light  of  the  Light  within  mine  eyes. 


Life . 

Why  suffer  human  life  so  soon  eclipse? 

For  I could  burst  into  a psalm  of  praise, 

Seeing  the  heart  so  wondrous  in  her  ways, 

E’en  scorn  looks  beautiful  on  human  lips ! 

Would  I could  pile  fresh  life  on  life,  and  dull 
The  sharp  desire  of  knowledge  still  with  knowing! 
Art,  Science,  Nature,  everything  is  full, 

As  my  own  soul  is  full,  to  overflowing  — 

Millions  of  forms,  and  hues,  and  shades,  that  give 
The  difference  of  all  things  to  the  sense, 

And  all  the  likeness  in  the  difference. 

I thank  thee,  God,  that  thou  hast  made  me  live : 

I reck  not  for  the  sorrow  or  the  strife : 

One  only  joy  I know,  the  joy  of  life. 


6o 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[l828- 


To  Poesy . 

O God,  make  this  age  great  that  we  may  be 
As  giants  in  Thy  praise ! and  raise  up  Mind, 
Whose  trumpet-tongued,  aerial  melody 
May  blow  alarum  loud  to  every  wind, 

And  startle  the  dull  ears  of  human  kind ! 
Methinks  I see  the  world’s  renewed  youth 
A long  day’s  dawn,  when  Poesy  shall  bind 
Falsehood  beneath  the  altar  of  great  Truth: 

The  clouds  are  sunder’d  toward  the  morning-rise; 

Slumber  not  now,  gird  up  thy  loins  for  fight, 
And  get  thee  forth  to  conquer.  I,  even  I, 

Am  large  in  hope  that  these  expectant  eyes 
Shall  drink  the  fulness  of  thy  victory, 

Tho’  thou  art  all  unconscious  of  thy  Might. 


To— . 

Thou  may’st  remember  what  I said 
When  thine  own  spirit  was  at  strife 
With  thine  own  spirit.  “ From  the  tomb 
And  charnel-place  of  purpose  dead, 

Thro’  spiritual  dark  we  come 
Into  the  light  of  spiritual  life.” 

God  walk’d  the  waters  of  thy  soul, 

And  still’d  them.  When  from  change  to  change. 
Led  silently  by  power  divine, 

Thy  thought  did  scale  a purer  range 
Of  prospect  up  to  self-control, 

My  joy  was  only  less  than  thine. 


1830] 


“THE  HESPERIDES.” 


61 


The  Hesperides  * 

[Published  and  suppressed  by  my  father,  and  republished  by  me  here 
(with  accents  written  by  him)  in  consequence  of  a talk  that  I had  with 
him,  in  which  he  regretted  that  he  had  done  away  with  it  from  among 
his  “Juvenilia.”] 

Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree.  Comus. 

The  North  wind  fall’n,  in  the  new-starred  night 
Zidonian  Hanno,  wandering  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe, 

Past  Thymiaterion  in  calmed  bays 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western  Horn, 

Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightingale, 

Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  Lotus-flute 

Blown  seaward  from  the  shore ; but  from  a slope 

That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic  blue, 

Beneath  a highland  leaning  down  a weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar-shade, 

Came  voices  like  the  voices  in  a dream 
Continuous ; till  he  reach’d  the  outer  sea : — 

Song  of  the  Three  Sisters. 

I 

The  Golden  Apple,  the  Golden  Apple,  the  hallow’d 
fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 

Round  about  all  is  mute, 

As  the  snowfield  on  the  mountain-peaks, 

As  the  sandfield  at  the  mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 
Sleep  and  stir  not:  all  is  mute. 

* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


62  CAMBRIDGE.  [l828- 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure, 

We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 

Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 

Laugh  not  loudly:  watch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 

In  a corner  wisdom  whispers.  Five  and  three 
(Let  it  not  be  preach’d  abroad)  make  an  awful  mystery: 
For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music  bloweth ; 
Evermore  it  is  born  anew, 

And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 

From  the  root, 

Drawn  in  the  dark, 

Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 

Liquid  gold,  honeysweet  thro  and  thro. 

( slow  movement) 

Keen-eyed  Sisters,  singing  airily, 

Looking  warily 
Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day, 

Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take  it  away. 


II 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  Watch,  watch,  ever 
and  aye, 

Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a silver  eye. 

Father,  twinkle  not  thy  stedfast  sight: 

Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change,  and  races  die; 
Honour  comes  with  mystery; 

Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 

Number,  tell  them  over,  and  number 
How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds, 

Lest  the  red-comb’d  dragon  slumber 
Roll’d  together  in  purple  folds. 


SONG  OF  THE  THREE  SISTERS. 


1830] 


63 


Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and  the  golden 
apple  be  stol’n  away, 

For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with  overwatchings 
night  and  day 

Round  about  the  hallow’d  fruit-tree  curl’d  — 

Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the  wind  without 
stop,  (A  nap  cbs  t) 

Lest  his  sealed  eyelid  drop, 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken, 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  our  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken 
The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a golden  chain  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  Dragon,  and  Sisters  three 
Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 


Ill 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  Watch,  watch,  night 
and  day, 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed, 

The  glory  unsealed, 

The  golden  apple  stol’n  away, 

And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 

Look  from  West  to  East  along: 

Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus  is  bold  and  strong. 
Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters  call ; 

Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 

Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles, 

Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 

All  things  are  not  told  to  all, 


64 


CAMBRIDGE. 


[1828- 


Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn. 

Purplefringed  with  even  and  dawn 

Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth  morn. 


IV 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent  breath 
Of  the  warm  seawind  ripeneth, 

Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep : 

But  the  land-wind  wandereth, 

Broken  by  the  highland  steep, 

Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep. 

For  the  Western  Sun,  and  the  Western  Star, 
And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afar, 

The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night, 

Keep  the  apple  Holy  and  Bright; 

Holy  and  Bright,  round  and  full,  bright  and  blest, 
Mellow’d  in  a land  of  rest : 

Watch  it  warily  night  and  day; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  West. 

Till  mid-noon  the  cool  East  light 

Is  shut  out  by  the  round  of  the  tall  hill  brow, 
But,  when  the  full-faced  Sunset  yellowly 
Stays  on  the  flowerful  arch  of  the  bough, 

The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 
Golden-kernell’d,  Golden-cored, 

Sunset-ripen’d  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and  sword, 

But  the  Apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  Sea! 

Five  links  — a Golden  chain  are  we  — 

Hesper,  the  Dragon,  and  Sisters  three, 
Daughters  three, 

Round  about, 

All  round  about 

The  gnarl’d  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 


1830]  “ LASTING  SORROW.’’  65 

The  Golden  Apple,  The  Golden  Apple,  The  hallow’d 
fruit, 

Guard  it  well, 

Guard  it  warily, 

Watch  it  warily, 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 


Lasting  Sorrow . 

(Republished  from  Friendship' s Offering — an  album  published  by 
Smith  and  Elder  1832.) 

Me  my  own  Fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh: 

Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transitory : 

Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a living  glory, 

In  summer  still  a summer  joy  resumeth. 

Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloometh, 

Like  a lone  cypress,  thro’  the  twilight  hoary, 

From  an  old  garden  where  no  flower  bloometh, 

One  cypress  on  an  inland  promontory ; 

But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine, 

As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows  day ; 

But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 
Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  away; 

I am  so  dark,  alas ! and  thou  so  bright, 

When  we  two  meet  there’s  never  perfect  light. 

Another  sonnet,  “ There  are  three  things  which  fill 
my  heart  with  sighs,”  he  contributed  (1832)  to  the 
Yorkshire  Literary  Annual . 


T.  I. 


5 


CHAPTER  III. 


CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM. 

1830-31. 

To  Alfred  Tennyson  {at  Somersby ) (unpublished). 

Those  Gothic  windows  are  before  me  now, 

Which  long  have  shone  dim-lighted  in  my  mind ; 

That  slope  of  softest  green,  the  brook  below, 

Old  musty  stalls,  and  tedded  hay  behind  — 

All  have  I seen ; and  simple  tho1  they  be, 

A mighty  awe  steals  with  them  on  my  heart, 

For  they  have  grown  and  lasted  as  a part 
Of  thy  dear  self,  up-building  thine  and  thee : 

From  yon  tall  fir,  weathering  the  April  rain, 

Came  influence  rare,  that  deepened  into  song, 

Beauty  lurk’d  for  thee  in  the  long  gray  fields, 

By  tufted  knolls,  and,  Alfred,  made  thee  strong  ! 

Hence  are  the  weapons  which  thy  spirit  wields, 

Musical  thoughts  of  unexampled  strain.  A.  H.  H. 

As  Sterling  had  been  deeply  moved  “ by  the  opinions 
and  feelings  which  pervaded  the  age,”  and  had  instituted 
a crusade  against  the  cold  selfishness  of  the  time ; so  the 
narrowness  and  dryness  of  the  ordinary  course  of  study 
at  Cambridge,  the  lethargy  there,  and  absence  of  any 
teaching  that  grappled  with  the  ideas  of  the  age  and 
stimulated  and  guided  thought  on  the  subjects  of  deepest 
human  interest,  had  stirred  my  father  to  wrath 1.  He 
cried  aloud  for  some  “ soldier-priest,  no  sabbath-drawler 
of  old  saws,”  to  set  the  world  right.  But  however 

1 Macaulay  had  written  of  the  Cambridge  of  his  day:  “We  see 

men  of  four  and  five-and-twenty,  loaded  with  academical  honours  and 
rewards — scholarships,  fellowships,  whole  cabinets  of  medals,  whole  shelves 
of  prize-books,  enter  into  life  with  their  education  still  to  begin ; un- 
acquainted with  the  first  principles  of  the  laws  under  which  they  live, 

66 


RELATIONS  WITH  CAMBRIDGE. 


67 


1830] 

gloomy  his  own  view  and  that  of  his  contemporaries 
was  then  as  to  the  present,  my  father  clearly  saw  the 
“ Day-beam,  New-risen  o’er  awaken’d  Albion.”  Indeed 
now,  as  always,  he  was  one  of  those  “ on  the  look-out 
for  every  new  idea,  and  for  every  old  idea  with  a 
new  application,  which  may  tend  to  meet  the  growing 
requirements  of  society  ” ; one  of  those  who  are  “ like 
men  standing  on  a watch-tower,  to  whom  others  apply 
and  say,  not  ‘What  of  the  night?’  but  ‘What  of  the 
morning  and  of  the  coming  day1?”’ 

At  the  request  of  Aubrey  de  Vere,  he  consented 
that  the  following  denunciatory  lines,  written  in  his 
undergraduate  days,  should  be  published  among  my 
notes. 


Lines  on  Cambridge  of  1830. 

Therefore  your  Halls,  your  ancient  Colleges, 

Your  portals  statued  with  old  kings  and  queens, 
Your  gardens,  myriad-volumed  libraries, 

Wax-lighted  chapels,  and  rich  carven  screens, 

Your  doctors,  and  your  proctors,  and  your  deans, 
Shall  not  avail  you,  when  the  Day-beam  sports 
New-risen  o’er  awaken’d  Albion.  No! 

Nor  yet  your  solemn  organ-pipes  that  blow 
Melodious  thunders  thro’  your  vacant  courts 
At  noon  and  eve,  because  your  manner  sorts 
Not  with  this  age  wherefrom  ye  stand  apart, 
Because  the  lips  of  little  children  preach 
Against  you,  you  that  do  profess  to  teach 
And  teach  us  nothing,  feeding  not  the  heart. 

In  after  years  a great  change  came  over  Cambridge, 

unacquainted  with  the  very  rudiments  of  moral  and  political  science.” 
And  when  Whewell  in  1838  was  elected  to  the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy, 
he  began  his  introductory  address  by  elaborately  justifying  the  innovation 
of  delivering  public  lectures  on  the  subject  committed  to  his  charge. 

1 Speech  of  the  Duke  of  Argyll  in  the  House  of  Lords,  Aug.  13th,  1894. 


68  CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l830 

and  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  spoken  so  bitterly,  for  he 
always  looked  back  with  affection  to  those  “ dawn-golden 
times  ” passed  with  his  friends  at  Trinity.  He  honoured 
the  University  for  the  way  it  had  adapted  itself  to 
modern  requirements ; and  he  especially  approved  of  the 
University  Extension  movement,  for  spreading  higher 
education  throughout  local  centres  in  Great  Britain. 
Every  vacation  after  his  marriage  University  men  visited 
him,  so  that  he  kept  level  with  such  movements. 

What  impressed  him  most,  when  he  went  to  Cam- 
bridge in  1872,  was  the  change  in  the  relations  be- 
tween don  and  undergraduate.  While  he  was  keeping 
his  terms  (1828-1831)  there  was  “a  great  gulf  fixed” 
between  the  teacher  and  the  taught1,  but  in  1872  he 
found  a constant  personal  intercourse  and  interchange 
of  ideas  between  them.  And,  as  the  “living  word”  is 
to  each  man  more  than  the  mere  lecture-room  exposition, 
this  change,  he  thought,  could  not  fail  to  have  the  best 
influence  on  the  enlargement  of  the  views,  sympathies 
and  aspirations  of  the  generations  to  come. 

A letter  from  Blakesley  indicates  an  intellectual 
attitude  somewhat  similar  to  my  father’s  in  relation  to 
the  prevailing  habits  of  thought  in  Cambridge  and  in 
society  at  large. 

Blackheath,  1830. 

Dear  Tennyson, 

The  present  race  of  monstrous  opinions  and  feelings 
which  pervade  the  age  require  the  arm  of  a strong  Iconoclast. 
A volume  of  poetry  written  in  a proper  spirit,  a spirit  like  that 
which  a vigorous  mind  indues  by  the  study  of  Wordsworth  and 
Shelley,  would  be,  at  the  present  juncture,  the  greatest  benefit 
the  world  could  receive.  And  more  benefit  would  accrue  from 
it  than  from  all  the  exertions  of  the  Jeremy  Benthamites  and 
Millians,  if  they  were  to  continue  for  ever  and  a day.  I have 
seen  Sterling  two  or  three  times  since  I have  been  in  these  parts, 
and  had  some  conversation  with  him. 

1 He  said  to  Dr  Butler,  “ There  was  a want  of  love  in  Cambridge  then.” 


LETTER  FROM  J.  W.  BLAKESLEY. 


69 


1830] 

Sterling,  and  all  of  his  class,  who  have  been  hawked  at  by 
the  mousing  owls  of  Cambridge,  suffer  from  the  narrow-minded- 
ness of  criticism.  He  saw  the  abuses  of  the  present  system 
of  things,  which  is  upheld  by  the  strong  hand  of  power  and 
custom,  and  he  attacked  them  accordingly.  For  this  conduct  he 
was  dubbed  a radical.  He  soon  saw  that  the  reforms  proposed 
by  that  party  were  totally  inadequate  to  the  end  which  they 
proposed : that  if  carried  to  their  fullest  effect  they  would  only 
remove  the  symptoms  and  not  the  cause  of  evil ; that  this  cause 
was  the  selfish  spirit  which  pervades  the  whole  frame  of  society 
at  present,  and  that  to  counterbalance  the  effects  the  cause  of 
them  must  be  removed.  This  end,  he  at  first  probably  thought 
with  Shelley,  might  be  effected  by  lopping  off  those  institutions 
in  which  that  selfish  spirit  exhibits  itself,  without  any  more 
effort.  He  afterwards  saw,  with  Wordsworth,  that  this  was  not 
the  true  method ; but  that  we  must  implant  another  principle 
with  which  selfishness  cannot  co-exist,  and  trust  that  this  plant 
as  it  grows  up  will  absorb  the  nourishment  of  the  weed,  in 
which  case  those  wickednesses  and  miseries,  which  are  only 
the  forms  in  which  the  latter  developes  itself,  will  of  their  own 
accord  die  away,  as  soon  as  their  principle  of  vegetation  is 
withered  and  dried  up. 

Hallam  has  gone  back  to  Cambridge.  He  was  not  well 
while  he  was  in  London ; moreover,  he  was  submitting  himself 
to  the  influences  of  the  outer  world  more  than  (I  think)  a man 
of  his  genius  ought  to  do. 

I shall  be  in  Cambridge,  God  willing  (which,  considering  the 
depth  of  the  snow  is  not  quite  clear),  to-morrow  evening.  I hope 
soon  to  see  you  there. 

Believe  me  your  affectionate  friend, 

J.  W.  Blakesley. 

On  October  4th,  1830,  Arthur  Hallam  wrote  from 
Forest  House,  Leyton,  Essex: 

I am  sorry,  dear  Alfred,  that  I have  left  your  note  so  long 
unanswered ; but  I don’t  doubt  you  have  found  already  that  to 
return  to  one’s  native  land  is  to  throw  oneself  into  the  jaws  of 
all  kinds  of  importunate  people,  from  creditors  upwards  or  down- 
wards, who  leave  one  no  time  for  pleasant  things.  Yet  this 


70  CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l830 

excuse  lies  arrantly,  I discover  upon  second  thoughts.  I am 
living  here  in  a very  pleasant  place,  an  old  country  mansion,  in 
the  depths  of  the  Forest,  with  cedars  in  the  garden,  the  seed  of 
which  is  vouched  to  have  been  brought  from  Lebanon,  and  a 
billiard-table  within  doors,  by  dint  of  which  I demolish  time 
pretty  well.  I have  been  studious  too,  partly  after  my  fashion, 
and  partly  after  my  father’s;  i.e.  I read  six  books  of  Herodotus 
with  him,  and  I take  occasional  plunges  into  David  Hartley,  and 
Buhle’s  Philosophie  Moderne  for  my  own  gratification.  I cannot 
find  that  my  adventures  have  produced  quite  the  favourable 
impression  on  my  father’s  mind  that  his  letter  gave  me  to 
expect.  I don’t  mean  that  he  blames  me  at  all;  but  his  old 
notions  about  the  University  begin  to  revive,  and  he  does  not 
seem  quite  to  comprehend,  that  after  helping  to  revolutionize 
kingdoms,  one  is  still  less  inclined  than  before  to  trouble  one’s 
head  about  scholarships,  degree  and  such  gear.  Sometimes  I 
sigh  to  be  again  in  the  ferment  of  minds,  and  stir  of  events 
which  is  now  the  portion  of  other  countries.  I wish  I could  be 
useful ; but  to  be  a fly  on  that  great  wheel  would  be  something. 
Spanish  affairs,  you  will  have  seen  by  the  papers,  go  on  slowly : 
not  therefore,  I trust,  less  surely ; but  I wish  something  was 
done.  Sterling  has  had  little  direct  news  for  a while,  and 
Perina  never  wrote  to  me.  Sterling  has  been  unwell,  and  is 
going  to  be  married.  I am  glad  he  does  not  go  out  of  the 
Apostolic  family,  for  his  lady  is  to  be  Susan  Barton,  of  whom 
you  may  often  have  heard  Blakesley  rave.  I had  a letter  from 
Spedding  the  other  day,  full  of  pleasant  scoffs.  I found  one 
on  my  return  from  Leighton,  dated  two  months  ago,  and 
extolling  your  book  above  sun,  moon  and  stars : I have 
written  to  him,  but  as  he  has  not  answered,  he  has  probably 
quitted  Upfield  Lodge.  I cannot  make  out  that  you  have 
been  reviewed  anywhere,  but  I have  seen  no  magazines,  and 
a letter  from  Garden,  also  of  very  old  date,  gives  hope  of 
Blackwood.  Effingham  of  course  I shun,  as  I would  “ whipping 
to  death,  pressing  and  hanging.”  Moxon  very  civilly  sent  me 
two  copies  of  Lamb’s  Album  verses,  one  for  you ; the  book  is 
weak  as  water.  What  think  you  of  Belgium  ? The  opinion  of 
everybody  here  seems  against  them ; yet  I cannot  well  conceive 
their  present  resolution,  and  increasing  unanimity,  unless  the 
grounds  of  their  aversion  to  the  Dutch  were  stronger  than  it 
is  the  fashion  to  represent  them.  At  all  events,  now  blood  has 


LIKELIHOOD  OF  EUROPEAN  WAR. 


183l] 


71 


flowed  in  torrents,  all  union  is  rendered  impracticable.  The 
chances  of  a general  war  in  Europe  are  great;  the  iniquitous 
prudence  of  the  Allied  Wolves,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  has 
guaranteed  the  possession  of  Belgium  to  the  Dutch  crown,  and 
should  the  insurgents,  as  is  very  likely,  declare  they  never  can 
submit  to  the  government  of  a Thing  who  has  made  war  upon 
them,  the  inevitable  consequence  will  be  that  the  Prussians 
will  interfere  to  preserve  the  sanctity  of  the  guarantee,  and 
the  French  to  maintain  the  principle,  that  the  allegiance  of  a 
people  depends  on  its  consent,  not  on  the  autocratic  transfer  of 
another  power.  ’Twas  a very  pretty  little  revolution  in  Saxony, 
and  a respectable  one  at  Brunswick.  I am  surprised  you  have 
not  heard  of  Frederick ; have  you  not  written  to  the  Hotel  de 
Lille  ? You  really  ought,  for  he  may  be  in  distress,  and  Temple- 
ton has  very  likely  left  Paris.  I beg  your  pardon  for  this  stupid 
note,  and  rest  in  expectation  of  your  promised  letter,  which  I 
hope  will  explain  your  intentions  for  the  future,  and  the  details 
of  things  as  they  are  at  Somersby.  Remember  me  most  kindly 
to  your  mother  and  sisters,  and  tell  Charles  to  write. 

Affectionately  yours,  A.  H.  H. 


It  may  be  as  well  to  say  here  that  all  the  letters  from 
my  father  to  Arthur  Hallam  were  destroyed  by  his 
father  after  Arthur’s  death:  a great  loss,  as  these  par- 
ticular letters  probably  revealed  his  inner  self  more 
truly  than  anything  outside  his  poems. 

In  February  1831  my  father  left  Cambridge,  for 
my  grandfather  was  somewhat  ailing  and  wished  that 
he  should  return  to  help  his  mother. 

On  the  night  of  leaving  he  gave  a supper  in  his 
rooms,  Corpus  Buildings,  and  after  supper  he  and  his 
friends  all  danced  a quadrille.  As  he  drove  away  in  the 
coach  his  last  sight  in  Trumpington  Street  was  “Thomp- 
son’s handsome  face  under  the  light  of  a street  lamp.” 
After  he  had  gone  down,  the  Cambridge  friends  for- 
warded him  his  Alfieri , which  one  of  them  had  borrowed 
from  him  and  for  which  he  had  been  making  constant  de- 
mands, and  they  also  told  him  of  the  poet  Wordsworth’s 


72  CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l831 

visit  to  Trinity.  They  told  how  Spedding  gave  him 
coffee  in  his  rooms;  how  Wordsworth  was  in  good  talk- 
ing mood  but  furiously  alarmist,  nothing  but  revolutions, 
reigns  of  terror;  how  he  had  said  he  wished  that  Cole- 
ridge had  not  written  the  second  part  of  “ Christabel  ” 
because  this  required  the  tale  to  be  finished,  and  asserted 
that  the  conclusion  of  Part  I.,  “ It  was  a lovely  sight 
to  see,”  was  too  much  laboured : how  he  defended 
“ Passive  Obedience  ” by  quoting  Scripture.  Upon  the 
whole,  although  he  “ said  nothing  very  profound  or 
original,”  yet  the  young  men  enjoyed  his  talk  till  one 
o’clock  in  the  morning;  he  also  was  pleased  with  his 
hearers. 

My  father’s  comment  on  such  criticism  about  a poet 
whom  he  loved  was : “ How  can  you  expect  a great  man 
to  say  anything  ‘ very  profound  ’ when  he  knows  it  is 
expected  of  him  ? ” 

On  a Wednesday  of  this  March,  shortly  after  n 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  my  grandfather  was  found  leaning 
back  in  his  study  chair,  having  passed  away  peacefully  — 

Once  thro’  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass, 

One  went,  who  never  hath  return’d. 

He  will  not  smile  — not  speak  to  me 
Once  more. 

After  Arthur  Hallam’s  death  these  lines  were  written 
in  “ In  Memoriam,”  referring  to  the  double  loss  of  his 
father  and  of  his  friend : 

As  down  the  garden-walks  I move, 

Two  spirits  of  a diverse  love 
Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

My  father  told  me  that  within  a week  after  his  father’s 
death  he  slept  in  the  dead  man’s  bed,  earnestly  desiring 

1 Wordsworth,  according  to  Milnes,  heard  Hallam  deliver  his  Declama- 
tion in  Trinity  College  Chapel.  “It  was  splendid,”  he  writes,  “to  see  the 
poet  Wordsworth’s  face  kindle  as  Hallam  proceeded  with  it.” 


183l] 


DEATH  OF  MY  GRANDFATHER. 


73 


to  see  his  ghost,  but  no  ghost  came.  “You  see,”  he 
said,  “ghosts  do  not  generally  come  to  imaginative 
people.”  In  a letter  to  his  friend  John  Frere,  my 
uncle  Charles  describes  what  happened : 

Somersby,  March  23rd,  1831. 
****** 

John,  a melancholy  change  has  taken  place  in  our  house 
since  I saw  you  last.  My  poor  father,  all  his  life  a man  of 
sorrow  and  acquainted  with  grief , has  gone  to  “ that  bourne  from 
whence  no  traveller  returns.”  After  an  illness  of  about  a month’s 
continuance,  he  died  last  Wednesday  at  eleven  o’clock  in  the 
day.  He  suffered  little,  and  after  death  his  countenance,  which 
was  strikingly  lofty  and  peaceful,  was  I trust  an  image  of  the 
condition  of  his  soul,  which  on  earth  was  daily  racked  by  bitter 
fancies,  and  tossed  about  by  strong  troubles.  We  are  not  certain 
whether  we  shall  be  permitted  to  remain  much  longer  in  this 
place.  We  must  abide  the  pleasure  of  Robinson,  the  next 
Incumbent,  &c.  &c. 

If. ..I  pay  him  a rent  by  which  he  will  be  a gainer,  I think 
we  are  likely  to  be  less  under  obligations  to  him  than  he  to  us. 
But  as  my  father’s  revenues  are  now  sequestrated  we  are  left 
entirely  at  the  will  of  my  grandfather,  who  may  have  a house  of 
his  own  to  put  us  into. 

Charles  Tennyson  (d’Eyncourt)  \ Dr  Tennyson’s 
brother,  also  writes  to  the  co-trustee  of  my  grandfather’s 
property,  Mr  Rawnsley  of  Halton: 

This  morning’s  post  brought  me  the  afflicting  news  from 
Somersby.  You  will  guess  my  feelings,  for  you  know  that  I 
valued  my  dear  brother  for  his  thousand  admirable  qualities  of 

1 The  Right  Hon.  Charles  Tennyson  d’Eyncourt  represented  in 
Parliament  successively  Grimsby,  Bletchingley,  Stamford,  and  Lambeth. 
On  his  death  in  1861,  he  was  succeeded  by  his  son  George  Hildeyard  T. 
d’Eyncourt,  who  died  in  1871.  The  Tennyson  estates  then  passed  to  his 
brother,  Admiral  Edwin  Tennyson  d’Eyncourt,  C.B.,  who  had  served  with 
distinction  in  China,  and  in  the  Gulf  of  Finland  during  the  Crimean  War. 
Under  an  arrangement  made  with  the  Admiral,  Edmund  d’Eyncourt,  son  of 
Louis  T.  d’Eyncourt  (long  known  as  Senior  Metropolitan  Magistrate),  now 
holds  the  property. 


74  CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l831 

heart,  which  would  have  contributed  to  his  own  happiness  and 
that  of  those  around  him  if  he  had  not  given  way  to  failings 
arising  out  of  a nervous  temperament.  I knew  him  to  be 
excellent  in  intention,  to  be  naturally  full  of  worth  and  goodness, 
and  I respected  and  loved  him.  I believe  he  also  depended  on 
my  fraternal  feelings  towards  him,  and  I will,  as  far  as  I can, 
endeavour  to  justify  his  good  opinion  of  me.  I transmit  to  you 
his  will  and  a codicil..,. I was  unable  to  get  down  to  Somersby, 
my  official  business  requiring  my  presence  in  town.  I would 
however  have  broken  through  all,  if  I could  have  been  of  use  or 
comfort  to  my  poor  brother’s  widow. 

From  Arthur  Hallarn  to  Emily  Tennyson . 

1831. 

I cannot  help  thinking  that  if  the  name  of  Tennyson 
should  pass  from  that  little  region,  which  all  your  life  long  has 
been  to  you  home,  that  blessed  little  region,  “ bosomed  in  a 
kindlier  air,  Than  the  outer  realm  of  care  And  dole,”  the  very 
fields  and  lanes  will  feel  a sorrow,  as  if  part  of  their  appointed 
being  had  been  reft  from  them.  Yet,  after  all,  a consecration 
has  come  upon  them  from  the  dwellers  at  Somersby,  which,  I 
think,  is  not  of  the  things  that  fail.  Many  years  perhaps,  or 
shall  I say  many  ages,  after  we  all  have  been  laid  in  dust, 
young  lovers  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true  may  seek  in  faithful 
pilgrimage  the  spot  where  Alfred’s  mind  was  moulded  in  silent 
sympathy  with  the  everlasting  forms  of  nature.  Legends  will 
perhaps  be  attached  to  the  places  that  are  near  it.  Some 
Mariana,  it  will  be  said,  lived  wretched  and  alone  in  a dreary 
house  on  the  top  of  the  opposite  hill.  Some  Isabel  may  with 
more  truth  be  sought  nearer  yet.  The  belfry,  in  which  the 
white  owl  sat  “ warming  his  five  wits,”  will  be  shown,  for  six- 
pence, to  such  travellers  as  have  lost  their  own.  Critic  after 
critic  will  track  the  wanderings  of  the  brook,  or  mark  the 
groupings  of  elm  and  poplar,  in  order  to  verify  the  “ Ode  to 
Memory  ” in  its  minutest  particulars.  I send  down,  along  with 
this  note,  some  numbers  of  the  Tatter ■ containing  a review  of 
Alfred  and  Charles  by  Leigh  Hunt.  You  will  be  amused  with 
the  odd  style  of  his  observations,  and  the  frank  familiarity  with 
which  he  calls  them  by  their  Christian  names,  just  as  if  he  had 
supped  with  them  a hundred  times.  His  general  remarks  are 


183l] 


HALLAM  AND  EMILY  TENNYSON. 


75 


nonsensical  enough,  but  being  a poet  he  has  a keen  eye  for 
true  beauty,  and  the  judgments  of  his  taste  are  worth  having. 
Charles  will  be  proud  of  this  review  because  it  is  the  first  notice 
which  the  Press  (our  new  despot,  the  Kehama,  under  whom  the 
world  now  groans,  already  nearly  almighty  and  omnipresent, 
but,  alas ! as  far  as  ever  from  all-wise)  has  deigned  to  take  of 
his  “ humble  plot  of  ground.”  But  he  has  had  better  suffrages  : 
voices  have  come  to  him  from  the  Lakes,  and  the  old  man  of 
Highgate  has  rejoiced  over  him1.  I am  looking  forward  with 
eagerness  to  seeing  Charles ; would  that  Alfred  were  with  him ! 
but  that  will  not  be,  and  perhaps  ought  not  to  be ; “ the  days 
are  awa  ” that  we  have  seen. 

The  upshot  of  the  various  transactions  as  to 
Somersby  was,  that  the  new  Incumbent  was  willing  that 
the  Tennysons  should  live  on  at  the  Rectory,  where  they 
remained  till  1837. 

Arthur  Hal  lam  had  been  attached  to  my  aunt  Emily 
since  1829.  After  the  first  year,  when  Mr  Hallam 
thought  it  desirable  that  the  lovers  should  be  separated 
for  a time,  he  stayed  at  Somersby  as  often  as  he  could 
spare  leisure  from  his  work ; and  whenever  he  came,  he 
cheered  all  with  his  “ bright,  angelic  spirit  and  his  gentle, 
chivalrous  manner2.” 

“ I am,”  wrote  Hallam  to  Trench,  “now  at  Somersby, 
not  only  as  the  friend  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  but  as  the 
lover  of  his  sister.  An  attachment  on  my  part  of  nearly 
two  years’  standing  and  a mutual  engagement  of  one 
year  are,  I fervently  hope,  only  the  commencement  of  a 

1 S.  T.  Coleridge. 

2 Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright ; 

And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 
Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 

And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 
The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town. 


76  CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l831 

union  which  circumstances  may  not  impair,  and  the  grave 
itself  may  not  conclude.” 

My  aunt  Emily  had  eyes  “ with  depths  on  depths,’" 
and  “ a profile  like  that  on  a coin,”  “ testa  Romana,” 
as  an  old  Italian  said  of  her.  All  the  Tennyson  sons 
and  daughters  except  Frederick  had  the  colouring  of 
Italy  or  the  south  of  France  with  dark  eyes  and  hair. 
This  foreign  colouring  may  possibly  have  been  derived 
from  a Huguenot  ancestor,  a relation  of  Madame  de 
Maintenon.  On  the  Continent  my  father  was  never 
taken  for  an  Englishman,  and  even  in  Ireland  in  1848* 
when  he  was  at  Valentia,  an  Irishman  rose  up  from 
among  the  fern  and  heather,  and  said,  “ From  France, 
your  honour  ? ” thinking,  as  he  confessed,  that  he  was  a 
Frenchman  come  to  head  a revolution. 

While  Hallam  was  at  Somersby,  after  the  morning’s 
work  the  Tennysons  and  he  would  generally  go  for  long 
walks  together  beyond  the  “ bounding  hill.”  Not  only 
was  my  father  fond  of  walking,  but  of  “ putting  the  stone” 
and  other  athletic  feats.  Mrs  Lloyd  of  Louth  writes : 
“ In  proof  of  his  strong  muscular  power,  when  showing 
us  a little  pet  pony  on  the  lawn  at  Somersby  one  day  he 
surprised  us  by  taking  it  up  and  carrying  it.”  Brook- 
field remarked : “ It  is  not  fair,  Alfred,  that  you  should 
be  Hercules  as  well  as  Apollo.”  Fitzgerald  notes: 
“ Alfred  could  hurl  the  crowbar  further  than  any  of  the 
neighbouring  clowns,  whose  humours,  as  well  as  those  of 
their  betters,  knight,  squire,  landlord  and  lieutenant,  he 
took  quiet  note  of,  like  Chaucer  himself.”  Yet  as  he 
wandered  over  the  wold,  or  by  the  brook,  he  often  seemed 
to  be  in  dreamland,  so  that  one  who  often  saw  him  then 
called  him  “ a mysterious  being,  seemingly  lifted  high 
above  other  mortals,  and  having  a power  of  intercourse 
with  the  spirit-world  not  granted  to  others.” 

In  the  evening  he  lived  much  in  his  attic  den,  but 
now  and  then  came  down  and  listened  to  the  singing 


LIFE  AT  SOMERSBY. 


77 


183l] 

and  playing  of  his  sisters.  He  had  a love  for  the 
simple  style  of  Mozart,  and  for  our  own  national  airs 
and  ballads,  and  played  himself  a little  on  the  flute,  but 
only  “cared  for  complicated  music  as  suggesting  echoes 
of  winds  and  waves.”  The  sisters  were  all  very  musical, 
my  aunt  Mary  playing  the  harp  and  accompanying  the 
brothers  and  sisters  who  sang.  Fitzgerald  speaks  of 
music  in  College  days,  and  says : 

A.  T.  was  not  thought  to  have  an  ear  for  music ; I re- 
member little  of  his  execution  in  the  line  except  humming  over 
“the  weary  pund  o’  tow,”  which  was  more  because  of  the  weary 
moral,  I think,  than  for  any  music’s  sake.  Carlyle  once  said, 
“ The  man  must  have  music  dormant  in  him,  revealing  itself  in 
verse”  I remember  A.  T.’s  speaking  of  Haydn’s  “ Chaos,” 
which  he  had  heard  at  some  Oratorio.  He  said,  “The  violins 
spoke  of  light.”  Carlyle,  who  was  apt  to  look  on  poetry  as  a 
waste  of  talents  which  ought  to  be  employed  in  other  heroic 
work,  took  at  once  to  A.  T.:  among  other  signs  of  the  man, 
remarking  his  voice,  “like  the  sound  of  a pinewood,”  he  said. 

In  past  years  many  friends  of  Somersby  days  have 
told  me  of  the  exceeding  consideration  and  love  which 
my  father  showed  his  mother,  and  how  much  they 
were  struck  by  the  young  man’s  tender  and  defer- 
ential manner  towards  her,  and  how  he  might  often 
be  found  in  her  room  reading  aloud,  with  his  flexible 
voice,  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Chaucer,  Spenser  and 
Campbell’s  patriotic  ballads.  When  Arthur  Hallam  was 
with  them,  Dante,  Petrarch,  Tasso  and  Ariosto  were 
the  favourite  poets : and  it  was  he  who  taught  my  aunt 
Emily  Italian,  and  made  her  a proficient  scholar. 


CAMBRIDGE,  SOMERSBY  AND  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l831 


Arthur  Hallam  to  Emily  Tennyson . 

Lady,  I bid  thee  to  a sunny  dome, 

Ringing  with  echoes  of  Italian  song ; 
Henceforth  to  thee  these  magic  halls  belong, 
And  all  the  pleasant  place  is  like  a home: 

Hark ! on  the  right,  with  full  piano  tone, 

Old  Dante’s  voice  encircles  all  the  air: 

Hark  yet  again ! like  flute  tones  mingling  rare 
Comes  the  keen  sweetness  of  Petrarca’s  moan. 

Pass  thou  the  lintel  freely ; without  fear 

Feast  on  the  music.  I do  better  know  thee 
Than  to  suspect  this  pleasure  thou  dost  owe  me 
Will  wrong  thy  gentle  spirit,  or  make  less  dear 
That  element  whence  thou  must  draw  thy  life, 
An  English  maiden  and  an  English  wife. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 
1831-1833. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish’d  in  the  green, 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 
Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 


So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whate’er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


In  the  spring  of  1831  my  father  was  much  distressed 
about  the  condition  of  his  eyes  and  feared  that  he  was 
going  to  lose  his  sight,  “ a sad  thing  to  barter  the  uni- 
versal light  even  for  the  power  of  ‘ Tiresias  and  Phineus, 
prophets  old.’  ” He  took  to  a milk  diet  for  some  months, 
which  apparently  “ did  good.”  At  all  events  his  eyesight 
was  strong  enough  to  allow  him  to  study  Doji  Quixote  in 
the  original.  He  also  records  that  one  night  he  “ saw 
the  moonlight  reflected  in  a nightingale’s  eye,  as  she 
was  singing  in  the  hedgerow  h”  He  adds  that  her  voice 
vibrated  with  such  passion  that  he  wrote  of 

The  leaves 

That  tremble  round  the  nightingale 

o o 

1 Owing  to  his  extreme  short-sight  he  could  see  objects  at  a short 
distance  better  than  anyone : and  at  a long  distance  with  his  eye-glass  or 


79 


So 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l831 


in  “ The  Gardener’s  Daughter.”  Hallam  told  him  at  this 
time  that  “ The  nightingale  with  long  and  low  preamble,” 
in  the  sonnet  which  I give,  was  “worth  an  estate  in 
Golconda.” 

Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder  sally 

Of  thought  and  speech,  speak  low,  and  give  up  wholly 

Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  Melancholy : 

This  is  the  place.  Thro’  yonder  poplar  alley, 

Below,  the  blue  green  river  windeth  slowly, 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley, 

The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically, 

And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and  holy. 

The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low  preamble, 
Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn  larches, 

And  in  and  out  the  woodbine’s  flowery  arches 
The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton  gambol, 

And  all  the  white-stemm’d  pinewood  slept  above, 
When  in  this  valley  first  I told  my  love. 

My  father  contributed  “ Anacreontics,”  “ No  More1,” 
and  “A  Fragment,”  to  a literary  annual  The  Gem\  and 
Moxon,  who  had  some  sparks  of  poetry  in  him,  and  had 
come  into  possession  of  the  Englishman' s Magazine , 
wished  to  start  with  a “ flash  number,”  and  asked 
Hallam  to  persuade  my  father  to  forward  him  a poem 
which  would  appear  along  with  contributions  from 
Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  Charles  Lamb.  Hallam 
urged  him  (July  15th,  1831)  to  send  “The  Sisters,” 

spectacles  he  could  see  as  far  as  any  long-sighted  person.  At  this  time  he 
went  to  see  Brodie  for  his  eyes,  and  began  to  talk  so  learnedly  about  them, 
that  Brodie  raised  his  hand  saying:  “Wait;  remember  I never  see  medical 
students  without  a fee.”  His  hearing  was  extraordinarily  keen,  and  this  he 
held  to  be  a compensation  for  his  short-sight : he  “ could  hear  the  shriek 
of  a bat,”  which  he  said  was  the  test  of  a fine  ear. 

1<4No  More”  is  written  out  in  Arthur  Hallam’s  handwriting  in  a 
common-place  book  belonging  to  Archdeacon  Allen,  and  is  dated  by  Arthur 
Hallam  1826.  Although  my  father  considered  the  poem  crude,  it  is  re- 
markable for  a boy  of  seventeen. 


183l]  “AS  PISGAH  TO  CANAAN.”  8 1 

or  “ Rosalind,”  or  the  “ Southern  Mariana,”  and  begged 
him  not  to  disdain  a mode  of  publication  which  Schiller 
and  Goethe  chose  for  their  best  compositions.  He 
pointed  out  that  the  fugitive  pieces  might  form  part  of 
a volume  hereafter. 

Hallam  was  at  Hastings  “listening  all  day  to  the 
song  of  the  larks  on  the  cliffs,”  and  reading  Destiny 
and  Inheritance.  He  had  no  answer  from  Alfred,  or 
any  of  his  brothers,  so  wrote  again : 

Hastings,  July  2 6 th,  1831. 

I have  been  expecting  for  some  days  an  answer  to  my  letter 
about  Moxon;  but  I shall  not  delay  any  longer  my  reply  to 
your  last,  and  before  this  is  sent  off  yours  may  come.  I,  whose 
imagination  is  to  yours  as  Pisgah  to  Canaan,  the  point  of  distant 
prospect  to  the  place  of  actual  possession,  am  not  without  some 
knowledge  and  experience  of  your  passion  for  the  past.  To 
this  community  of  feeling  between  us,  I probably  owe  your 
inestimable  friendship,  and  those  blessed  hopes  which  you  have 
been  the  indirect  occasion  of  awakening.  But  what  with  you  is 
universal  and  all-powerful,  absorbing  your  whole  existence, 
communicating  to  you  that  energy  which  is  so  glorious,  in  me 
is  checked  and  counteracted  by  many  other  impulses,  tending 
to  deaden  the  influence  of  the  senses  which  were  already  less 
vivacious  by  nature.  When  I say  the  senses,  I mean  those 
employed  in  the  processes  of  imagination,  viz.  sight  and  hearing. 
You  say  pathetically,  “Alas  for  me!  I have  more  of  the 
Beautiful  than  the  Good ! ” Remember  to  your  comfort  that 
God  has  given  you  to  see  the  difference.  Many  a poet  has 
gone  on  blindly  in  his  artist  pride.  I am  very  glad  you  have 
been  reading  Erskine  [of  Linlathen].  No  books  have  done  me 
so  much  good  as  his,  and  I always  thought  you  would  like  them 
if  they  came  in  your  way.  His  doctrine  may  not  be  the  truth, 
but  it  may  contain  it  still,  and  this  is  my  own  view  of  the 
case.  You  perhaps  will  be  angry  when  I tell  you  that  I sent 
your  sonnet  about  the  “Sombre  Valley”  to  Moxon1,  who  is 
charmed  with  it,  and  has  printed  it  off.  I confess  this  is  a breach 
of  trust  on  my  part,  but  I hope  for  your  forgiveness... 

A.  H.  H. 

1 Published  in  the  EnglisJmiarC s Magazine  for  August. 


t.  1. 


6 


82 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l831 

The  two  friends,  after  a tour  taken  by  Hallam 
in  Devon,  Cornwall  and  Yorkshire,  met  at  Sheffield 
to  talk  over  literary  plans  for  the  future.  Hallam  wrote 
that  he  was  “ in  the  humbler  station  of  critic,”  while 
“ Alfred  is  brimful  of  subjects  and  artist  thoughts.” 
The  “ Apostles  ” and  their  little  band  of  Cambridge 
friends  expressed  themselves  warmly  as  to  Hallam’s 
article  on  the  Poems , chiefly  Lyrical . After  his  holiday 
Hallam  returned  to  his  reading  of  law,  and  enjoyed 
“ the  old  fellow  Blackstone,”  culling  for  Alfred  poetic 
words  like  “forestal.”  “The  Dream  of  Fair  Women,” 
Hallam  was  of  opinion,  should  be  published  soon,  for  it 
would  establish  the  poet  at  once  in  general  reputation. 
The  friends  interchanged  thoughts  on  the  political  state 
of  the  world  and  on  Ireland  especially,  which  is  “ the 
most  volcanic  point.”  They  had  grave  arguments  about 
the  Church,  and  were  exercised  about  the  St  Simonians, 
whose  opinions  on  many  points  “ resembled  those  of 
Shelley,  although  they  were  much  more  practical.”  Miss 
Austen’s  novels  were  read  and  notes  compared.  My 
father  preferred  Emma  and  Persuasion , and  Hallam 
wrote,  “ Emma  is  my  first  love,  and  I intend  to  be 
constant.  The  edge  of  this  constancy  will  soon  be 
tried,  for  I am  promised  the  reading  of  Pride  and 
Prejudice .” 

My  father  meets  Fanny  Kemble,  whom  he  holds 
“supreme  in  Juliet,”  and  she  speaks  of  him  as  having 
“ the  grandest  head  of  any  man  whom  she  has  clapt 
eyes  on.”  Adelaide  Kemble  copies  out  “ The  Sisters,” 
“ raving  about  it  at  intervals  in  the  most  Siddonian 
tone,”  and  Fanny  has  set  the  ballad  to  music ; “ she 
inclines  however  to  think  it  too  painful,  and  to  wish 
such  things  should  not  be  written.”  Her  “ enthusiasm 
is  high  ” over  some  of  the  manuscript  poems  in  the 
forthcoming  1832  volume,  especially  “The  Lady  of 
Shalott.” 


FANNY  KEMBLE. 


83 


1832] 

Her  own  play,  Francis  /.,  runs  for  several  nights 
(March  1832).  “It  is  a remarkable  production  for 
seventeen ; the  language  is  very  pure,  free,  elegant 
English  and  strictly  dramatic.  There  is  none  of  that 
verbiage  which  is  called  mere  poetry  in  it.  She  must 
have  nourished  her  childhood  with  the  strong  wine  of 
our  old  drama  ” : so  writes  Hallam,  who  was  more 
conversant  with  that  old  drama  than  any  of  his 
Cambridge  contemporaries. 

The  Hunchback  is  then  given,  and  Hallam  writes 
that  “ The  scene  in  the  second  Act,  where  Fanny 
Kemble  plays  fine  lady,  was  excellent,  but  the  tragic 
parts  yet  finer:  for  instance  where  Clifford  comes  in 
as  Secretary,  and  afterwards  where  she  expostulates  with 
Master  Walter.  Her  ‘ Clifford,  why  don’t  you  speak  to 
me  ? ’ and  ‘ Clifford,  is  it  you  ? ’ and  her  ‘ Do  it,’  with 
all  the  accompanying  speech,  I shall  never  forget.” 

Hallam  and  my  father  in  their  rambles  through 
London,  and  in  their  smokes  in  Hallam’s  den  at  the  top 
of  the  house  in  the  “ long  unlovely  street,”  touched  on  all 
imaginable  topics.  Hallam  was  busy  writing  essays  on 
modern  authors;  and  these  and  my  father’s  1832  volume 
were  frequent  subjects  of  discussion.  The  unsettled 
condition  of  the  country  and  the  misery  of  the  poorer 
class  weighed  upon  them.  It  seemed  difficult  to  young 
men,  starting  in  life,  to  know  how  to  remedy  these 
evils,  but  they  determined  not  to  lose  hold  of  the  Real 
in  seeking  the  Ideal.  Hallam  writes  : “ Where  the  ideas 
of  time  and  sorrow  are  not,  and  sway  not  the  soul  with 
power,  there  is  no  true  knowledge  in  Poetry  or  Philoso- 
phy.” 

On  my  father’s  return  to  Somersby,  the  correspond- 
ence recommenced.  Hallam  desires  the  publication  of 
“ The  Lover’s  Tale,”  for  there  are  “magnificent  passages 
in  that  poem.  The  present  casket,  faulty  as  it  is,  is  yet  the 
only  one  in  which  the  precious  gems  contained  therein 

6 — 2 


84 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l832 

can  be  preserved.”  The  author  thinks  it  too  diffuse  and 
will  not  publish.  Hallam  answers  that,  since  his  is  “ the 
only  printed  copy  of  the  ‘ Lover’s  Tale,’  he  shall  make  a 
fortune  by  lending  it  out  at  five  shillings  a head.”  One 
day  he  reads  “ CEnone  ” to  his  father,  who  “ seems  to 
like  Juno’s  speech,  but  is  called  away  in  the  middle  of 
Venus’,”  so  the  friends  do  not  obtain  the  great  man’s 
criticism. 

Meanwhile  the  colloquial  critic  of  Blackwood , “ Chris- 
topher North,”  had  delivered  his  judgment  on  Poems , 
chiefly  Lyrical  in  a comically  aggressive  though  not 
wholly  unfriendly  article  h 

The  following  two  letters  were  written  by  Arthur 
Hallam  about  this  review,  and  the  poems  which  were 
to  appear  in  the  volume  of  1832: 

\_Undated.~\ 

Professor  Wilson  has  thought  fit  to  have  a laugh  at  you  and 
your  critics,  amongst  whom  so  humble  a thing  as  myself,  has 
not,  as  you  will  perceive,  escaped.  I suppose  one  ought  to  feel 
very  savage  at  being  attacked,  but  somehow  I feel  much  more 
amused.  He  means  well  I take  it,  and  as  he  has  extracted 
nearly  your  whole  book,  and  has  in  his  soberer  mood  spoken  in 
terms  as  high  as  I could  have  used  myself  of  some  of  your  best 
poems,  I think  the  review  will  assist  rather  than  hinder  the 
march  of  your  reputation.  They  little  know  the  while  that  you 
despise  the  false  parts  of  your  volume  quite  as  vehemently 
as  your  censors  can,  and  with  purer  zeal,  because  with  better 
knowledge. 

April  10  th,  1832. 

I don’t  know  that  you  ought  to  publish  this  spring,  but 
I shall  never  be  easy  or  secure  about  your  MSS  until  I see 
them  fairly  out  of  your  control.  The  Ballad  of  ‘‘The  Sisters” 
was  very  popular  at  Cambridge.  Indeed  it  is  very  perfect. 
Monteith  showed  his  ignorance  by  wishing  the  murdering  lady 

1 For  example  in  the  criticism  of  the  song  entitled  u The  Owl,”  he  says, 
“ Alfred  is  as  an  owl : all  that  he  wants  is  to  be  shot,  stuffed  and  stuck 
into  a glass  case,  to  be  made  immortal  in  a museum.”  ( Blackwood's  Mag, 
Vol.  xxxi.) 


8 s 


1832]  LETTERS  FROM  HALLAM  AND  SPEDDING. 

to  have  been  originally  the  rival  of  the  seduced  lady,  which 
idea  was  of  course  scouted  by  the  wiser  listeners,  that  is,  all  the 
rest,  as  substituting  a commonplace  melodramatic  interest  for 
the  very  poetic  interest  arising  from  your  conception  of  the 
character.  All  were  anxious  for  the  “ Palace  of  Art,”  etc.,  and 
fierce  with  me  for  not  bringing  more.  Venables  is  a great  man 
(at  Cambridge),  also  Dobson.  New  customs,  new  topics,  new 
slang  phrases  have  come  into  vogue  since  my  day,  which  yet  was 
but  yesterday.  I don’t  think  I could  reside  again  at  Cambridge 
with  any  pleasure.  I should  feel  like  a melancholy  Pterodactyl 
winging  his  lonely  flight  among  the  linnets,  eagles  and  flying 
fishes  of  our  degenerate  post-Adamic  world.  I have  seen  Gaskell, 
who  is  in  the  ninth  heaven  of  happiness,  going  to  be  married  the 
end  of  May.  I have  taken  to  my  law  again,  and  a little  to  my 
other  studies.  The  [first  Reform]  Bill  is  now  in  the  second 
reading,  and  will  pass  by  a very  small  majority.  The  cholera  is 
certainly  abating ; the  preliminary  symptoms  have  been  very 
widely  prevalent ; disorders  which  are  cured  without  difficulty  in 
our  rank  of  life  turn  to  malignant  cholera  in  the  poor.  Casimir 
Perier  has  had  it  but  is  recovering.  The  heroes  of  July  are 
cutting  the  throats  of  physicians  and  wine  merchants  as  you  will 
see  by  the  papers. 

The  report  about  Macaulay  in  Tennant’s  letter  has  no  great 
foundation  : at  least  he  has  not  seen  your  book.  I think  Mac 
has  some  poetic  taste,  and  would  appreciate  you. 

Yours  affectionately, 

A.  H.  H. 

Spedding  wrote  from  Cambridge  to  Thompson 
(May  4th,  1832) : 

Only  think  of  an  “Apostolic  ” dinner  next  Friday,  nth  inst. ; 
present,  Hallam,  Trench,  Kemble,  Arthur  Buller,  Martineau, 
Pickering,  Donne  I hope,  etc.  etc.  Only  think  of  Heath’s  essay 
on  Niebuhr  the  day  after  ! Only  think  of  the  “ Palace  of  Art,”  of 
which  you  may  see  part  of  a stanza,  horribly  misquoted,  at  what 
should  have  been  the  beginning  of  this  sheet ! Only  think  of  all 
these  things,  and  others  which  your  own  fruitful  imagination  will 
readily  suggest ! By  the  way,  are  you  not  tired  by  this  time  of 
the  monotony  and  manufacture  of  your  infernal  county  ? or  if 


86  ARTHUR  HALLAM.  [l832 

you  are  still  wandering  on  the  sea-shore,  does  not  your  soul 
feel  very  much  like 

A still  salt  pool,  lock’d  in  with  bars  of  sand 
Left  on  the  shore,  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white  ? 

Do  you  not  begin  to  sigh  for  apostolic  conversation,  and  your 
dear  lodgings,  and  River-Gods  of  “ Mighty  Michael  Angelo,”  and 
the  massed  chestnut  boughs  that  promise  soon  to  put  out 
their  leaves  ? 

Charles  Merivale  also  wrote  to  Thompson  that  “ A 
daily  divan  continued  to  sit  throughout  the  term,”  and 
that  the  “ ‘ Palace  of  Art  ’ was  read  successively  to  each 
man  as  he  came  up  from  the  vacation.”  He  continues : 

Though  the  least  eminent  of  the  Tennysonian  Rhapsodists, 
I have  converted  by  my  readings  both  my  brother  and  your 
friend  (or  enemy?)  Richardson  to  faith  in  the  “Lotos-eaters.” 
They  rather  scoff  at  the  former  (the  “ Palace  of  Art”),  and  ask 
whether  “The  abysmal  depths  of  personality”  means  the  Times 
newspaper  ? 

Spedding  wrote  again  to  Thompson,  June  21st,  1832 : 

We  talk  out  of  the  “ Palace  of  Art,”  and  the  “ Legend  of 
Fair  Women.”  The  great  Alfred  is  here  (in  London),  i.e.  in 
Southampton  Row,  smoking  all  the  day,  and  we  went  from  this 
house  on  a pilgrimage  to  see  him,  to  wit,  two  Heaths,  my 
brother  and  myself,  and  meeting  Allen  on  the  way  we  took  him 
along  with  us,  and  when  we  arrived  at  the  place  appointed  we 
found  A.  T.  (Alfred  Tennyson),  and  A.  H.  H.  (Arthur  Hallam), 
and  J.  M.  K.  (Kemble),  and  we  made  a goodly  company,  and 
did  as  we  do  at  Cambridge,  and  but  that  you  were  not  among 
us,  we  should  have  been  happy. 

And  on  July  18th,  1832,  Spedding  writes: 

I say,  a new  volume  by  A.  T.  is  in  preparation,  and  will,  I 
suppose,  be  out  in  Autumn.  In  the  meantime  I have  no  copy 
of  the  “ Palace  of  Art,”  but  shall  be  happy  to  repeat  it  to  you 
when  you  come  ; no  copy  of  the  “ Legend  of  Fair  Women,”  but 


TOUR  ON  THE  RHINE. 


87 


1832] 

can  repeat  about  a dozen  stanzas  which  are  of  the  finest;  no 
copy  of  the  conclusion  of  “ CEnone,”  but  one  in  pencil  which 
none  but  myself  can  read. 

This  July  my  father  and  Hallam  went  for  a tour  on 
the  Rhine. 

Arthur  Hallam  to  Emily  Tennyson . 

NONNENWERTH,////y  l6//z,  1832. 

I expect,  as  far  as  I can  calculate  (but  a traveller’s  calcula- 
tions are  always  liable  to  be  deranged  by  unforeseen  chances), 
to  be  in  England  by  the  end  of  this  month,  and  then  I shall  go 
straight  to  Somersby.  I had  better  tell  you  something  of  what 
Alfred  and  I have  been  doing.  My  last  letter,  I think,  was 
from  Rotterdam. 

We  resumed  our  steam-boat  last  Wednesday  morning,  and 
came  on  slowly  up  the  Rhine ; the  banks  of  which  are  more 
uniformly  ugly  and  flat  as  far  as  Cologne  than  any  country  I 
ever  saw  of  so  great  an  extent.  Really,  until  yesterday,  we  had 
seen  nothing  in  the  way  of  scenery  that  deserved  going  a mile  to 
see.  Cologne  is  the  paradise  of  painted  glass  : the  splendour  of 
the  windows  in  the  churches  would  have  greatly  delighted  you. 
The  Cathedral  is  unfinished,  and  if  completed  on  the  original 
plan,  would  be  the  most  stupendous  and  magnificent  in  the  world. 
The  part  completed  is  very  beautiful  Gothic.  Alfred  was  in 
great  raptures,  only  complaining  he  had  so  little  time  to  study 
the  place.  There  is  a gallery  of  pictures  quite  after  my  own 
heart,  rich,  glorious  old  German  pictures,  which  Alfred  accuses 
me  of  preferring  to  Titian  and  Raffaelle.  In  the  Cathedral  we 
saw  the  tomb  and  relics  of  the  three  kings,  Gaspar,  Melchior, 
and  Balthazar,  the  patrons  of  Cologne  and  very  miraculous 
persons  in  their  day,  according  to  sundry  legends.  The  tomb 
is  nearly  all  of  pure  massy  gold,  studded  with  rich  precious 
stones. 

From  Cologne  we  came  on  to  Bonn,  which  really  bears  a sort 
of  family-likeness  to  Cambridge.  Here  the  Rhine  begins  to  be 
beautiful ; and  yesterday  we  took  a luxurious  climb  up  the 
Drachenfels,  looked  around  at  the  mild  vine-spread  hillocks,  and 
“river-sundered  champaign  clothed  with  corn,”  ate  cherries 
under  the  old  castle-wall  at  the  top  of  the  crag,  then  descended 


88 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l832 


to  a village  below,  and  were  carried  over  in  a boat  to  the  place 
from  which  I am  writing.  And  what  is  that?  Ten  years  ago  it 
was  a large  convent  of  Benedictine  nuns ; now  it  is  a large  and 
comfortable  hotel,  still  retaining  the  form  of  the  Convent,  the 
Cloisters,  cell-like  rooms,  etc.  It  stands  on  an  island  in  the 
middle  of  the  river;  you  will  understand  the  size  of  the  isle* 
when  I tell  you  it  is  rather  larger,  according  to  Alfred,  than 
that  of  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  and  the  stream  is  rather  more 
rapid  than  our  old  acquaintance  that  ran  down  to  Camelot. 
The  prospect  from  the  window  and  gardens  is  most  beautiful, 
the  mountains,  as  they  are  called,  Drachenfels  being  one,  on  one 
bank  of  the  river,  and  Rolandseck  towering  up  on  the  other,., 
with  the  hills  about  Bingen  glooming  in  the  distance. 


After  their  return  Arthur  Hallam  writes  to  Alfred : 

1832. 

My  dear  Alfred, 

Thanks  for  your  batch  of  MSS.  The  lines  to  J.  S. 
are  perfect.  James  [Spedding],  I am  sure,  will  be  most 
grateful.  The  “Old  Year”  is  excellent.  The  “Little  Room” 
is  mighty  pleasant1. 

Remember  the  maxim  of  the  Persian  sage : “ el  hoLd^eis, 
cnre'xov”  Your  epigram  to  North  is  good,  but  I have  scruples 
whether  you  should  publish  it.  Perhaps  he  may  like  the  lines 
and  you  the  better  for  them;  but  “ fiepiiripL^cof  I think  the 
“ Lover’s  Tale  ” will  be  liked,  as  far  as  I can  remember  its  old 
shape.  Moxon  is  in  ecstasies  with  the  “ May  Queen  ” ; he  says 
the  volume  must  make  a great  sensation.  He  and  your  friends 
are  anxious  that  it  should  be  out  before  the  storm  of  politics  is 
abroad.  The  French  Fleet  has  got  the  start  of  you,  and  I fear 
Antwerp  may  be  taken  before  your  last  revise  is  ready;  but 
still  you  may  be  beforehand  with  the  elections,  which  is  more 

1 (Note  by  my  father .) 

As  soon  as  this  poem  was  published,  I altered  the  second  line  to  “ All 
books  and  pictures  ranged  aright 11 ; yet  “ Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight 
(which  was  much  abused)  is  not  so  bad  as 

“Do  go,  dear  rain,  do  go  away.” 

A.  T. 


1832] 


THE  FIRST-PROOF. 


89 


important.  There  has  been  some  delay  this  week,  owing  to 
want  of  types,  but  the  (printer’s)  devils  are  full  of  promise  to  set 
up  immediately.  Moxon  has  sent  me  the  revises  of  “ The  Palace,” 
with  the  notes ; they  are,  I believe,  correct,  yet  I would  know 
whether  you  altered  “ pouring  glorious  scorn”  into  “ frowning,” 
etc.  In  the  course  of  next  week  I shall  send  you  two  composi- 
tions of  my  own,  the  one  very  trifling,  an  article  of  three  pages 
only,  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly , the  other,  a pamphlet  Moxon  has 
just  published  for  me  on  Rossetti’s  Disquisizioni  sullo  spirito 
Antipapale 1.  I hope  you  will  like  it;  yet  I have  not  forgotten 
that  the  last  time  I sent  you  a publication  of  mine  you  did  not 
even  deign  to  read  it.  When  should  I have  done  the  like  by 
one  of  yours?  Perhaps  you  may  retort  with  justice,  that  this 
question  is  like  the  American’s  remark  in  Mrs  Trollope,  to  an 
Englishman,  who  had  never  read  Bryant’s  poems,  “ How 
illiberal  you  English  are ! just  let  me  ask  you,  what  you  would 
say  to  one  of  us  that  had  never  read  Milton  or  Shakespeare,  or 
any  of  your  great  authors  ! ” Fare  thee  well,  old  trump,  poems 
are  good  things  but  flesh  and  blood  is  better.  I only  crave  a 
few  words. 

Ever  yours  affectionately,  A.  H.  H. 

A fter  staying  at  Kitlands . 

Dorking,  October  loth,  1832. 

My  dear  Alfred, 

I must  snatch  a few  minutes  from  the  overwhelming 
mass  of  law  business  which  is  now  on  my  hands,  just  to  talk  with 
you  about  the  first-proof.  I had  it  sent  down  to  me  while  I was 
staying  at  Heath’s.  The  weather  was  miserably  rainy,  so,  after 
breakfast,  we  adjourned  to  an  arbour  in  the  garden,  and  while 
Thompson,  who  was  also  staying  there,  furnished  cheroots,  I 
furnished  proof-sheets.  After  mature  examination,  we  came,  in 
full  conclave,  to  some  decisions,  of  which  you  shall  have  the 
benefit.  We  think  the  type  very  pretty,  but  are  rather  sorry 
the  book  will  not  bind  up  with  its  predecessor.  We  admire  the 
Buonaparte  sonnet  but  we  strongly  urge  the  substitution  of 

1 Among  other  papers  Hallam  wrote  then  were  the  brief  though  remark- 
able memoirs  of  Petrarch,  Burke,  and  Voltaire,  for  the  Gallery  of  Portraits 
published  by  the  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge. 


90 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l832 

“ dreamer  ” for  “ madman.”  The  stanzas  “ All  good  things  ” seem 
to  us  perfect.  The  “ Lady  ” (of  Shalott)  reads  charmingly  in  print : 
the  more  I read  it,  the  more  I like  it.  You  were,  indeed,  happily 
inspired  when  the  idea  of  that  poem  first  rose  in  your  imagination. 
We  had  a long  battle  with  Mr  Heath,  a famous  lawyer,  but  no 
man  of  letters,  about  the  last  stanza  in  the  proof.  We  flatter 
ourselves  we  floored  him ; to  be  sure  we  were  three  to  one,  but  he 
fought  well.  The  principal  point  of  attack  was  “ cloud-white  ” ; he 
said  it  was  absurd  to  explain  a fixed  colour  as  pearl  by  the  most 
variable  hue  in  the  world,  that  of  a cloud.  We  recovered  ourselves 
with  all  the  grace  of  practised  combatants,  and  talked  learnedly 
about  the  context  of  feeling,  and  the  conformity  of  the  lady’s 
dress  to  her  magical  character,  till  at  last  our  opponent  left  us 
in  possession  of  the  field,  declaring  still  between  his  teeth,  that, 
for  his  part,  he  thought  poetry  ought  to  be  sense.  In  one  place 
a whole  line  was  omitted.  Douglas  Heath  read,  “ sudden 
laughters  of  the  Tay  ” (Jay);  without  ever  suspecting  the 
misprint.  I hear  Tennant  has  written  to  dissuade  you  from 
publishing  “ Kriemhild,”  “Tarpeia”  (in  the  “ Fair  Women  ”). 
Don’t  be  humbugged,  they  are  very  good ; you  may  put  a 
note  or  two  if  you  will,  yet  Milton  did  not  to  “ Paradise  Lost.” 
Rogers  the  poet  has  been  staying  here,  and  speaks  of  you  with 
admiration.  Have  you  written  to  Moxon  ? He  is  anxious  to 
have  the  rest  of  the  MSS. 

Ever  your  most  affectionate  Arthur. 

My  father  wrote  to  Mr  Moxon,  in  consequence  of 
this  letter  from  Arthur  Hallam : 

20  Nov.  1832. 

Dear  Sir, 

After  mature  consideration,  I have  come  to 
a resolution  of  not  publishing  the  last  poem  in  my  little 
volume,  entitled,  “ Lover’s  Tale”:  it  is  too  full  of  faults 
and  tho’  I think  it  might  conduce  towards  making  me 
popular,  yet,  to  my  eye,  it  spoils  the  completeness  of  the 
book,  and  is  better  away ; of  course  whatever  expenses 
may  have  been  incurred  in  printing  the  above  must 
devolve  on  me  solely. 


“ TENNYSON  OR  MILTON  ? ” 


91 


1852] 

The  vol.  can  end  with  that  piece  titled  to  J.  S. 

We,  who  live  in  this  corner  of  the  world,  only  get 
our  letters  twice  or  thrice  a week:  which  has  caused 
considerable  delay : but  on  receipt  of  this  you  may  begin 
to  dress  the  volume  for  its  introduction  into  the  world,  as 
soon  as  you  choose. 

Believe  me,  Sir,  yours  very  truly, 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

P.S.  The  title-page  may  be  simply 

POEMS 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

(don’t  let  the  printer  squire  me). 

Be  so  good  as  to  send  me  five  copies. 

Among  the  poems  in  this  volume  were  “ The  Lady 
of  Shalott  ” (so-called  from  an  Italian  novelette,  “ Donna 
di  Scalotta”),  “Mariana  in  the  South,”  “The  Miller’s 
Daughter,”  “ CEnone,”  “ The  Palace  of  Art,”  “ The 
Lotos-Eaters,”  “The  Dream  of  Fair  Women,”  “The 
May  Queen,”  and  “To  James  Spedding”  on  the  death 
of  his  brother  Edward.  After  its  publication  Arthur 
Hallam  wrote  to  my  father,  referring  to  a review  of  the 
book  in  the  Quarterly  (No.  xlvii.  i 833): 

[ Undated.  ] 

Your  book  continues  to  sell  tolerably  and  Moxon  says  the 
Quarterly  has  done  good.  Rogers  defends  you  publicly  as  the 
most  promising  genius  of  the  time.  Sir  Robert  Inglis  told 
my  father  he  had  heard  from  unquestionable  authority  that 
Alfred  Tennyson  was  an  assumed  name  like  Barry  Cornwall. 
I endeavoured  to  shake  his  scepticism,  I fear  without  effect.  I 
hear  to-day  that  a question  is  put  up  at  the  Cambridge  Union, 
“Tennyson  or  Milton,  which  the  greater  poet?” 

* * * % * 

My  father  met  Milman  one  day  who  denies  altogether  having 
written  the  infamous  article  [in  the  Quarterly ].  He  says  he  has 


92 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[1832 

made  a rule  never  to  cut  up  any  living  poet.  Once  he  made  an 
exception  in  the  case  of  a foreigner,  and  to  his  horror  when 
at  Florence  he  found  himself  invited  to  meet  him  at  break- 
fast. Rogers  thinks  the  first  volume  decidedly  superior  to  the 
second.... I don’t  quite  comprehend  this. 

From  Arthur  Hallam. 

[ Undated .] 

*12  f, tot,  Aioyeves  II arpo/cXecs,  olov  eet7re?; 

You  are  very  impertinent  about  my  talent  of  letter-writing  ; I 
never  said  I composed  my  letters,  now  at  least ; formerly  I did  in 
some  sort,  when  Plancus  was  consul,  and  Gaskell  my  correspond- 
ent and  hero  of  romance.  Am  I not  thereby  entitled  to  say  of 
myself,  as  Mrs  Langley  said  of  her  daughters,  “ Whatever  accom- 
plishment I may  possess  in  that  way,  it  is  entirely  self-taught  ” ? 

That  labour,  if  labour  it  was,  was  one  of  love.  It  had 
nothing  of  the  file.  I composed  a letter  as  I composed  a poem. 
Heart  and  mind  went  into  it,  and  why?  — because  I couldn’t 
help  it.  I was  full  of  thoughts  so  new  to  me  that  I was  afraid 
of  losing  them,  and  took  every  way  to  treasure  them  : so  dear 
they  were  too  that  I could  not  rest  till  those  I loved  were  familiar 
with  them. 

I have  been  reading  Mrs  Jameson’s  Characteristics , and  I 
am  so  bewildered  with  similes  about  groves  and  violets,  and 
streams  of  music,  and  incense  and  attar  of  roses,  that  I hardly 
know  what  I write.  Bating  these  little  flummeries  of  style,  it 
is  a good  book,  showing  much  appreciation  of  Shakespeare  and 
the  human  heart  ev  Bid  Bvolv. 

I went  again  to  Effingham  Wilson’s  shop  to-day ; he  was 
bland  and  submissive,  promising  to  send  me  the  account  as 
soon  as  he  should  have  time  to  make  it  out.  I am  confident 
the  £11  1 will  be  found  a mistake.'  A rumour  is  current  that 
Mrs  Arkwright  has  set  “ Oriana  ” to  music ! All  the  world 
loves  her  music,  and  “Oriana”  has  a fair  chance  of  becoming 
as  stale  as  the  “ Captive  Knight.”  The  country  is  in  jeopardy 
hourly  increasing.  Yesterday  I saw  (perhaps)  the  last  king  of 
England  go  down  to  open  the  first  assembly  of  delegates  from 
a sovereign  people.  It  is  an  unmanageable  house.  O’Connell 

1 The  sum  my  father  received  for  the  1830  volume. 


THE  REFORM  BILL. 


93 


1832] 

raves.  Government  menaces.  Your  uncle  [C.  Tennyson  d’Eyn- 
court]  seems  to  be  manoeuvring  to  be  chief  of  the  Penultimate 
Radicals,  the  Girondists,  one  might  call  them  from  their  position, 
were  they  not  alike  destitute  of  genius  and  patriotism.  But  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that,  if  the  Mountain  continues  unshaken,  it 
must  increase,  and  that  more  faint-hearted  crew  to  which  your 
uncle  belongs  will  adhere  to  it.  O’ConneH’s  speech  is  said  to 
have  been  very  effective.  He  and  Sheil  on  one  side  ; Macaulay 
and  Stanley  on  the  other,  there  will  be  some  fine  spectacles  of 
intellectual  combat. 

Ever  yours  affectionately,  A.  H.  H. 

My  father  did  not  view,  the  political  situation  so 
gloomily  as  did  Arthur  Hallam.  It  was  the  “ dead 
waste  and  middle  of  the  night  ” when  the  news  of 
the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  for  England  and  Wales 
had  reached  Somersby.  This  “ Firm  Bill,”  as  the  Lin- 
colnshire people  called  it,  had  stirred  all  hearts ; and 
my  father  and  some  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  at  once 
sallied  out  into  the  darkness,  and  began  to  ring  the 
church  bells  madly.  The  new  parson,  horrified  at  hear- 
ing his  bells  rung  and  not  merely  rung  but  furiously 
clashed  without  his  leave,  came  rushing  into  his  church, 
and  in  the  pitch  blackness  laid  hold  of  the  first  thing 
which  he  could  clap  hand  to,  and  this  happened  to  be 
my  aunt  Cecilia’s  little  dog  — which  forthwith  tried  to 
bite.  The  Tennysons  then  disclosed  themselves  amid 
much  laughter ; and  the  parson,  who  I suppose  was  a 
Tory  of  the  old  school,  was  with  difficulty  pacified. 
More  than  once  my  father  thought  of  turning  this 
scene  into  verse  as  an  interesting  picture  of  the  times. 

The  advice  as  to  sensitiveness1  which  Hallam 

1 Jowett  writes  to  me:  “Your  father  was  very  sensitive  and  had  an 
honest  hatred  of  being  gossiped  about.  He  called  the  malignant  critics 
and  chatterers  ‘mosquitoes.1  He  never  felt  any  pleasure  at  praise  (except 
from  his  friends),  but  he  felt  a great  pain  at  the  injustice  of  censure.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  a new  poet  in  the  days  of  his  youth  was  sure  to 
provoke  dangerous  hostilities  in  the  ‘genus  irritabile  vatum,1  and  in  the 
old-fashioned  public.” 


94 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l832 

gave  my  father  at  this  time  was  wise;  since  the 
Quarterly  review  could  not  but  disturb  the  equanimity 
of  a mind  peculiarly  liable  to  be  annoyed  by  captious 
and  unintelligent  criticism1.  Hallam  urged  him  to  find 
amusement  in  those  hair-splitting  critics,  “ who  are  the 
bane  of  great  art,”  and  to  assure  himself  that  even  these 
reviews  would  bring  him  into  notice.  His  friends  were 
of  opinion  that  even  the  sneering  savage  Quarterly 
attack  would  be  innocuous,  for  the  Review  was  known  in 
London  to  be  the  organ  of  a party,  both  in  politics  and 
literature.  They  cheered  him  by  telling  him  that  his 
very  creative  originality  and  unlikeness  to  any  poet,  his 
uncommon  power  over  varied  metres  and  rare  harmonies 
of  sound  and  sense,  needed  the  creation  of  a taste  for 
his  work  before  he  could  be  appreciated.  “To  raise  the 
many,”  Hallam  wrote,  “ to  his  own  real  point  of  view, 
the  artist  must  employ  his  energies,  and  create  energy 
in  others : to  descend  to  their  position  is  less  noble,  but 
practicable  with  ease.”  However  the  estimation  in  which 
the  Quarterly  was  then  held  throughout  the  country  was 
given  by  an  old  Lincolnshire  squire,  who  assured  my 
father  that  “ The  Quarterly  was  the  next  book  to  God’s 
Bible.” 

My  father’s  attitude  towards  his  critics  is  illustrated 
in  the  following  letter2,  written  by  him  to  “Christopher 
North”  in  reference  to  a pamphlet  by  Mr  Lake,  which 

1 More  than  once  the  writer  in  the  Quarterly  wilfully  misinterprets  the 
lines  and  poems.  For  instance,  in  “The  Miller’s  Daughter”  my  father 
describes  the  mill-pool,  and  says  : 

A water-rat  from  off  the  bank 
Plunged  in  the  stream. 

This  is  explained  by  the  reviewer  as  the  poet  “likening  the  first  intrusion  of 
love  into  the  virgin  bosom  of  the  miller’s  daughter  to  the  plunging  of  a 
water-rat.” 

2 This  letter  was  found  in  a rag-store  in  Dundee  in  September  1895  and 
forwarded  to  me  by  C.  M.  Falconer. 


1832]  “ CHRISTOPHER  NORTH.”  95 

he  thought  “ Christopher  North  ” might  be  disposed  to 
notice. 


SOMERSBY,  SPILSBY,  LINCOLNSHIRE. 

Sir, 

Tho’  I am  “ the  star  of  little  Britain,”  I assure 
you  I do  not  rise  or  set  there  very  cordially.  I prefer 
vegetating  in  a very  quiet  garden  where  I neither  see 
nor  hear  anything  of  the  great  world  of  literature  — not 
lighting  even  upon  Maga  once  a year.  Nevertheless, 
in  the  lack  of  better  things,  a composition,  mistermed 
a Satyre,  entitled  Criticism  and  Taste , and  particularly 
remarkable  for  the  want  of  either,  was  forwarded  to  me, 
a day  or  two  ago,  by  the  author — with  a note;  he  thinks 
I ought  to  promote  the  circulation  of  his  book  for  the 
good  of  my  own,  does  he  ? so  then  I am  to  be  pioneered 

— perhaps  patronized,  by  Mr  John  Lake.  Now,  Sir, 
hew  me  piecemeal,  cut  me  up  any  way  you  will,  exhaust 
all  your  world  of  fun  and  fancy  upon  me,  but  do  not 
suspect  me- — tho’  I may  have  done,  written,  said  foolish 
things,  not  excepting  a silly  squib  to  Christopher  North 

— do  not  dream  that  I can,  now  or  ever,  own  any  one 
grain  of  sympathy  with  the  ravings  of  this  unhappy 
coxcomb.  I would  rather  request  you,  if  you  do  not 
object  to  meet  me  on  such  dirty  ground,  to  shake  hands 
over  the  puddle  he  has  made. 

Five  months  after  it  had  been  printed  I saw  the 
critique1  from  which  Mr  L.  has  drawn  his  inspiration. 
I considered  it  at  the  time  as  somewhat  too  skittish 
and  petulant,  tho’  it  was  redeemed  to  me  by  a tone 
of  boisterous  and  picturesque  humour  such  as  I love. 
My  gall  might  have  risen  a little  — that  it  could  never 
have  contained  much  bitterness  the  weakness  of  my 
epigram  ought,  I think,  to  prove;  for  I trust  that  you 
will  give  me  credit  for  being  able  to  write  a better. 

1 The  Blackwood  article  by  Wilson. 


96 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l832 

I could  wish  that  some  of  the  poems  there  broken 
on  your  critical  wheel  were  deeper  than  ever  plummet 
sounded.  Written  as  they  were  before  I had  attained 
my  nineteenth  year  they  could  not  but  contain  as  many 
faults  as  words.  I never  wish  to  see  them  or  hear  of 
them  again  — much  less  to  find  them  dragged  forward 
once  more  on  your  boards,  if  you  should  condescend  to 
divide  Mr  L.  from  his  one  idea  by  replying  to  him. 
Perhaps  you  should  not  use  him  too  harshly  — tho’  his 
arrogance  deserves  reproof ; a consideration  of  the  real 
imbecility  of  his  nature  ought  to  blunt  the  weapon. 

Someone  (I  think  M.  in  his  cups)  told  a friend  of 
mine  that  you  were  the  author  of  an  article  on  me  in 
the  Quarterly.  I do  not  believe  it ; for  I could  not 
recognise  one  spark  of  genius  or  a single  touch  of  true 
humour  or  good  feeling.  Moreover  the  man  misprints 
me,  which  is  worse  than  lying — but  now  that  we  have 
shaken  hands  (for  I trust,  we  have)  I find  that  you  owe 
me  an  explanation.  Somewhere  or  other  you  state 
“Alfred  is  a gentleman”  — to  which  I answer  with  Con- 
rade  and  Borachio,  “Yea,  sir,  we  hope”:  you  say  after- 
wards, that  I have  forgotten  what  was  due  to  myself  in 
that  character,  because  having  previously  sent  you  “ a 
copy  with  a grateful  superscription  ” I had  publicly  dis- 
claimed much  relish  for  your  approbation.  Now  upon 
mine  honour  as  a gentleman,  I did  never  send  or  cause 
to  be  sent  any  such  presentation-copy,  or  write,  indite, 
or  cause  to  be  written  or  indited  any  superscription, 
grateful  or  ungrateful,  to  any  Editor  of  any  Review  or 
Magazine  whatsoever. 

Apologising  for  having  thus  far  incroached  on  your 
valuable  time 1 

The  next  decade  wrought  a marvellous  abatement 
of  my  father’s  real  fault,  which  was  undoubtedly  “ the 

1 The  signature  of  this  letter  has  been  cut  off. 


1832]  “WHAT  THOR  SAID.”  97 

tendency,  arising  from  the  fulness  of  a mind  which  had 
not  yet  learned  to  master  its  resources  freely,  to  over- 
crowd his  composition  with  imagery...to  which  may  be 
added  an  over-indulgence  in  the  luxuries  of  the  senses, 
a profusion  of  splendours,  harmonies,  perfumes,  gorgeous 
apparel,  luscious  meats  and  drinks  and  ‘creature  com- 
forts ’ which  rather  pall  upon  the  sense,  and  make  the 
glories  of  the  outward  world  a little  too  obscure  and 
overshadow  the  world  within1.” 

“ Alfred  continued  writing,”  as  Spedding  says,  “ like 
a crocodile,  sideways  and  onward”:  and  defines  one 
aspect  of  the  poet’s  work  in  this  sort  of  way : 


(What  Thor,  armed  with  his  hammer,  said  to  the  Bard 
before  dinner.) 

Wherever  evil  customs  thicken, 

Break  thro’  with  the  hammer  of  iron  rhyme, 

Till  priest-craft  and  king-craft  sicken, 

But  pap-meat-pamper  not  the  time 
With  the  flock  of  the  thunder-stricken. 

If  the  world  caterwaul,  lay  harder  upon  her 
Till  she  clapperclaw  no  longer, 

Bang  thy  stithy  stronger  and  stronger, 

Thy  rhyme-hammer  shall  have  honour. 

Yet  a poet  cannot  live  his  true  life  without  sympathy, 
and  he  fancied  that  England  was  an  unsympathetic  at- 
mosphere, and  half  resolved  to  live  abroad  in  Jersey,  in 
the  south  of  France,  or  in  Italy.  He  was  so  far  per- 
suaded that  the  English  people  would  never  care  for 
his  poetry,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  intervention 
of  his  friends,  he  declared  it  not  unlikely  that  after  the 
death  of  Hallam  he  would  not  have  continued  to  write. 


T,  I. 


1 Spedding’s  Reviews  and  Discussions. 


7 


98 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l832 

Spedding  wrote  \ as  to  this  second  volume : “ The 
reception  (of  the  poems),  though  far  from  triumphant, 
was  not  inauspicious ; for  while  they  gained  him  many 
admirers,  they  were  treated,  even  by  those  critics  whose 
admiration,  like  their  charity,  begins  and  ends  at  home, 
as  sufficiently  notable  to  be  worth  some  not  unelaborate 
ridicule.  The  admiration  and  the  ridicule  served  alike 
to  bring  them  into  notice...The  superiority  of  his  second 
collection  of  poems  lay  not  so  much  in  the  superior 
workmanship  (it  contained  perhaps  fewer  that  were 
equally  perfect  in  their  kind)  as  in  the  general  aim  and 
character.  If  some  of  the  blossom  was  gone,  it  was 
amply  repaid  by  the  more  certain  promise  of  fruit. 
Not  only  was  the  aim  generally  larger,  the  subjects 
and  interest  more  substantial,  and  the  endeavour  more 
sustained,  but  the  original  and  distinctive  character 
of  the  man  appeared  more  plainly.  His  genius  was 
manifestly  shaping  a peculiar  course  for  itself,  and  find- 
ing out  its  proper  business ; the  moral  soul  was  begin- 
ning more  and  more  to  assume  its  due  predominance, 
not  in  the  way  of  formal  preaching  (the  proper  vehicle 
of  which  is  prose),  but  in  the  shape  and  colour  which 
his  creations  unconsciously  took,  and  the  feelings  which 
they  were  made  insensibly  to  suggest.” 

To  his  aunt,  Mrs  Russell,  my  father  wrote  the  two 
following  letters: 


Somersby. 


Dearest  Aunt, 

What  think  you  of  the  state  of  affairs  in 
Europe  ? Burking  and  cholera  have  ceased  to  create 
much  alarm.  They  are  our  least  evils,  but  reform  and 


1 In  1842. 


1832]  LETTER  TO  MRS  RUSSELL.  99 

St  Simonism  are,  and  will  continue  to  be,  subjects  of  the 
highest  interest.  The  future  is  so  dark  in  the  prospect 
that  I am  ready  to  cry  out  with  the  poet : 

The  empty  thrones  call  out  for  kings, 

But  kings  are  cheap  as  summer-dust. 

The  good  old  time  hath  taken  wings, 

And  with  it  taken  faith  and  trust, 

And  solid  hope  of  better  things. 

Reform  (not  the  measure,  but  the  instigating  spirit 
of  reform,  which  is  likely  to  subsist  among  the  people 
long  after  the  measure  has  past  into  a law)  will  bring 
on  the  confiscation  of  Church  property,  and  maybe  the 
downfall  of  the  Church  altogether : but  the  existence  of 
the  sect  of  the  St  Simonists1  is  at  once  a proof  of  the 
immense  mass  of  evil  that  is  extant  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  a focus  which  gathers  all  its  rays.  This 
sect  is  rapidly  spreading  in  France,  Germany  and  Italy, 
and  they  have  missionaries  in  London.  But  I hope  and 
trust  that  there  are  hearts  as  true  and  pure  as  steel  in 
old  England,  that  will  never  brook  the  sight  of  Baal  in 
the  sanctuary,  and  St  Simon  in  the  Church  of  Christ.  I 
should  delight  in  having  a line  from  you  or  Emma. 

Believe  me, 

Ever  yours  most  affectionately, 

A.  T. 


1 See  an  interesting  account  of  Saint-Simon  and  his  followers  in  Lecky’s 
Democracy  and  Liberty , Vol.  n.  pp.  207-215. 


7-2 


IOO 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l833 


Somersby,  March  10th , 1833. 

My  dearest  Aunt, 

I am  much  grieved  to  find  that  your  kind- 
hearted  letter  to  me  has  been  lying  so  many  days 
unanswered.  I was  at  Mablethorpe,  a bathing-place 
on  our  bleak,  flat  Lincolnshire  coast,  when  it  arrived 
at  Somersby,  and  as  there  is  no  species  of  post  between 
the  latter  and  the  former  place,  I have  only  just  now 
received  it  together  with  some  others.  I have  sent 
Emma’s1  picture  to  15  Portland  Place.  I recollect  when 
I first  saw  it,  thinking  that  it  did  not  do  her  justice:  it 
wanted  her  life  and  vivacity.  I would  have  forwarded 
this  portrait  to  you  long  ago,  and  likewise  visited  you 
by  the  proxy  of  a letter,  but  to  me  as  to  Dante,  “ La 
diritta  via  era  smarrita,”  for  I knew  not  where  you  were. 
What  astrologer  can  point  out  the  place  of  any  star  that 
moves  perpetually  under  a cloud  ? 

You  have  been  singing  too  in  your  solitude,  and 
I should  like  much  to  hear  some  of  your  melodies, 
but  a malicious  fatality  always  seems  to  thwart  me : 
the  ghost  of  some  ex-amateur,  jealous  of  your  notes, 
thrusts  himself  between  me  and  any  possible  piano  you 
may  sit  down  to.  My  grandfather  had  lately  a very 
severe  fit  of  the  gout,  — Mr  B.2  stayed  two  nights  in 
the  house,  — but  our  last  accounts  are  that  he  is  pretty 
well  recovered  and  rides  out,  I believe,  as  usual. 

Mary  remembers  having  once  met  you  at  Tealby:  I 
wish  you  knew  her  better  — she  is  a girl  of  great  feeling 


1 Her  daughter,  Lady  Boyne. 

2 Mr  B , the  county  doctor,  would  miss  out  his  “h’s,”  and  say:  “Mr 

Tennyson,  I work  ’ard  and  get  up  so  early  that  I ’eat  my  own  grate.”  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  riding  about  at  night  with  a gig-lamp  fastened  to  each 
foot,  for  fear  of  being  run  over. 


THE  RHINE. 


IOI 


1833] 

and  very  warm  in  her  attachments  to  her  female  friends, 
and  true  feeling  is  all  that  is  really  valuable  on  the  windy 
side  of  the  grave.  For  myself,  I drag  on  somewhat 
heavily  thro’  the  ruts  of  life,  sometimes  moping  to  myself 
like  an  owl  in  an  ivy-bush,  or  that  one  sparrow  which 
the  Hebrew  mentioneth  as  sitting  on  the  housetop  (a 
passage  which  used  always  to  make  me  uncomfortable), 
and  sometimes  smoking  a pipe  with  a neighbouring 
parson  and  cursing  O’Connell  for  as  double-dyed  a rascal 
as  ever  was  dipped  in  the  Styx  of  political  villainy1. 
Last  year,  however,  Hallam  and  myself  steamed  up  the 
Rhine  as  far  as  Bingen ; we  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
moored  by  a muddy  island,  full  of  stagnant  dykes,  in 
the  river  Maas,  where  we  performed  quarantine  for  a 
week,  and  saw  by  night  the  boats,  from  the  cholera 
vessels  stationed  in  the  river,  creeping  round  to  the 
burial-place  of  the  island  with  a corpse  and  a lantern. 
We  at  last  got  so  enraged  that  we  pulled  down  the 
Dutch  colours  and  reversed  them,  which  put  the  ancient 
skipper  into  such  indignation  that  he  swore  he  would 
hang  us  at  the  yard-arm. 

We  returned  by  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  Brussels.  My 
mother,  who,  as  you  know,  is  one  of  the  most  angelick 
natures  on  God’s  earth,  always  doing  good  as  it  were 
by  a sort  of  intuition,  continues  in  tolerable  health, 
though  somewhat  harassed  with  the  cares  incident  to 
so  large  a family.  She  sends  the  essence  of  all  love 
to  you  and  yours,  and  begs  me  to  state  how  happy  it 
would  make  her  to  see  you  at  Somersby : indeed  this  is 
a wish  in  which  we  all  cordially  join,  tho’  for  my  own 
part  I have  very  faint  hopes  that  you  will  gratify  it. 
Many  thanks  for  your  present  and  letter. 

Love  to  Emma  and  compliments  to  Gustavus2.  I 


1 He  softened  this  opinion  when  he  came  to  know  more  about  O’Connell. 

2 The  baby  son  is  the  present  Lord  Boyne- 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


102 


[l833 


hope  for  his  own  peace  of  mind  that  he  will  have  as 
little  of  the  Tennyson  about  him  as  possible. 

Believe  me, 

My  dearest  Aunt, 

Ever  your  most  affectionate  nephew, 

A.  T. 


During  these  years  the  Tennysons  seem  to  have 
taken  turns  in  going  to  London.  We  hear  of  my  uncle 
Charles  seeing  his  Cambridge  friends  in  town.  “ Brook- 
field is  melancholy  and  not  fancy-free.”  “John  Kemble 
is  buried  in  Gothic  manuscripts,  and  will  only  talk  of 
Runes  and  Eddas,  and  of  the  brave  knight  Siegfried.” 
Arthur  Hallam  is  “ as  kind  as  ever,”  and  Charles  rides 
with  him  “through  the  beautiful  Norwood  country.”  In 
March  of  this  year  we  are  told  that  Arthur  Hallam,  Alfred 
and  Mary  enjoyed  their  sight-seeing  in  London  together. 
They  visited  the  Elgin  Marbles,  the  Tower  and  the 
Zoological  Gardens.  They  looked  through  microscopes 
at  “ moths’  wings,  gnats’  heads,  and  at  all  the  lions 
and  tigers  which  lie  perdus  in  a drop  of  spring  water.” 
My  father  would  say,  on  looking  through  the  microscope, 
“ Strange  that  these  wonders  should  draw  some  men 
to  God  and  repel  others.  No  more  reason  in  one  than 
in  the  other.” 

In  July  Arthur  Hallam  wrote  to  my  father  who  was 
in  Scotland : 


July  31  st,  1833. 

1 feel  to-night  what  I own  has  been  too  uncommon  with 
me  of  late,  a strong  desire  to  write  to  you.  I do  own  I feel 
the  want  of  you  at  some  times  more  than  at  others  ; a sort  of 
yearning  for  dear  old  Alfred  comes  upon  me,  and  that  without 


1833]  VISITS  TO  SCOTLAND  AND  LONDON.  IO3 

any  particularly  apparent  reason.  I missed  you  much  at 
Somersby  — not  for  want  of  additional  excitement,  I was  very 
happy.  I had  never  been  at  Somersby  before  without  you. 
However  I hope  you  are  not  unpleasantly  employed  in  the  land 
of  cakes  and  broiled  fish.  I hear  that  you  were  charmed  with 
the  amiability  of  the  Gardens ; I also  hear  in  town  that  the  old 
Monteiths  have  been  here  instead  of  there.  I trust  you  finished 
the  “ Gardener’s  Daughter,”  and  enriched  her  with  a few  addi- 
tional beauties  drawn  from  the  ancient  countenance  of  Monteith’s 
aunt.  Have  you  encountered  any  Highland  girl  with  “ a shower 
for  her  dower  ” ? I should  like  much  to  hear  your  adventures, 
but  I daresay  it  will  be  difficult  to  persuade  you  to  write  to  Vienna, 
whither  I am  going  on  Saturday  with  tolerable  speed.  At  all 
events  if  you  have  any  traveller’s  tale  to  tell,  do  not  tell  it  often 
enough  to  get  tired  of  it  before  we  meet.  I am  going  perhaps 
as  far  as  Buda.  I shall  present  your  poetic  respects  to  the 
Danube  and  to  certain  parts  of  Tyrol.  In  the  parcel  which 
accompanies  this  you  will  find  a volume  of  poems  by  Hartley 
Coleridge,  much  of  which  I think  you  will  agree  with  me  is 
exquisitely  beautiful.  Probably  Charles  and  Septimus  will  like 
the  sonnets  more  than  you  will.  I desire  and  peremptorily 
issue  my  orders  that  Emily  may  not  be  debarred  from  full,  fair 
and  free  reading  of  that  book  by  any  of  her  brothers. 

A.  H.  H. 

My  father  went  with  Tennant  to  London  to  say 
farewell  to  his  friend,  before  he  set  out  abroad.  There 
was  a supper  at  my  father’s  lodgings,  and  Tennant  writes 
to  Septimus  Tennyson: 

Moxon  and  Leigh  Hunt  were  there,  and  we  did  not  separate 
till  half-past  four  o’clock  : Alfred  repeated  glorious  fragments  of 
the  “ Gardener’s  Daughter,”  which  seemed  to  produce  proper  effect 
upon  Leigh  Hunt.  Yesterday  we  went  in  a troop  to  see  Rogers’ 
(the  poet’s)  gallery  of  paintings : superb  Titian,  very  beautiful 
Raphael  Madonna,  and  in  fact  all  art  gems  1.  There  is  a fresco 

1 The  Titian,  presumably  Noli  me  tangere , and  the  (so-called)  Giotto,  a 
fragment  with  two  Apostles1  heads,  as  well  as  the  Madonna,  which  had 
belonged  to  the  Orleans  collection,  are  now  in  the  National  Gallery. 


104 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[1833 

by  Giotto.  In  the  library  we  found  Charles’  volume  but  not 
Alfred’s.  There  were  many  proofs  of  the  engravings  that  will 
appear  in  his  (Rogers’)  forthcoming  volume. 

Hallam  sent  as  a parting  present  to  Emily  Ten* 
nyson  the  Pensees  de  Pascal , and  Silvio  Pellico.  In 
August  he  started  with  his  father  for  the  “ Tyrol,  and 
Salzburg.”  “ Never  have  mountains  seemed  to  him  so 
sublime.”  He  admired  “ the  independence  and  self- 
respect  of  the  Tyrolese.”  Vienna  he  compared  to  Paris, 
but  found  the  city  “ more  uniformly  handsome.”  He 
visited  the  Treasure  Chamber,  where  he  saw  “ the 
largest  diamond  in  the  world.”  The  Prater  was  dismal, 
“ insipid,  worse  even  than  the  Corso  at  Milan  or  the 
Cascine  at  Florence.”  But  he  revelled  in  the  picture 
gallery  and  wrote  about  it  as  follows : 

Sept . 6ih,  1833. 

The  gallery  is  grand  and  I longed  for  you  : two  rooms  full 
of  Venetian  pictures  only;  such  Giorgiones,  Palmas,  Bordones, 
Paul  Veroneses  ! and  oh  Alfred  such  Titians  ! by  Heaven,  that 
man  could  paint ! I wish  you  could  see  his  Danae.  Do  you 
just  write  as  perfect  a Danae ! Also  there  are  two  fine  rooms 
of  Rubens,  but  I know  you  are  an  exclusive,  and  care  little  for 
Rubens,  in  which  you  are  wrong : although  no  doubt  Titian’s 
imagination  and  style  are  more  analogous  to  your  own  than 
those  of  Rubens  or  of  any  other  school. 

A.  H.  H. 

That  is  the  last  letter  from  Arthur  Hallam.  With 
his  letters  I find  these  MS  lines : 

I do  but  mock  me  with  the  questionings. 

Dark,  dark,  irrecoverably  dark 
Is  the  soul’s  eye ; yet  how  it  strives  and  battles 
Through  the  impenetrable  gloom  to  fix 
That  master  light,  the  secret  truth  of  things, 

Which  is  the  body  of  the  Infinite  God. 


A.  H.  H. 


DEATH  OF  ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


105 


1833] 

He  died  at  Vienna  on  Sept.  15th,  1833.  When  Mr 
Hallam  returned  from  his  daily  walk,  he  saw  Arthur 
asleep  as  he  supposed  upon  the  couch ; a blood-vessel 
near  the  brain  had  suddenly  burst : it  was  not  sleep  but 
death. 

On  October  1st  a letter  from  Arthur  Hallam  s uncle, 
Henry  Elton,  at  Clifton,  brought  the  sorrowful  news  to 
my  father : 

At  the  desire  of  a most  afflicted  family,  I write  to  you  because 
they  are  unequal  from  the  grief  into  which  they  have  fallen  to 
do  it  themselves.  Your  friend,  sir,  and  my  much-loved  nephew, 
Arthur  Hallam,  is  no  more.  It  has  pleased  God  to  remove  him 
from  this,  his  first  scene  of  existence,  to  that  better  world  for 
which  he  was  created.  He  died  at  Vienna,  on  his  return  from 
Buda,  by  apoplexy,  and  I believe  his  remains  come  by  sea  from 
Trieste.  Mr  Hallam  arrived  this  morning  in  3 Princes  Buildings. 
May  that  Being  in  whose  hands  are  all  the  destinies  of  man,  and 
who  has  promised  to  comfort  all  that  mourn,  pour  the  balm  of 
consolation  on  all  the  families,  who  are  bowed  down  by  this 
unexpected  dispensation ! I have  just  seen  Mr  Hallam,  who 
begs  I will  tell  you  that  he  will  write  himself  as  soon  as  his 
heart  will  let  him.  Poor  Arthur  had  a slight  attack  of  ague, 
which  he  had  often  had,  ordered  his  fire  to  be  lighted,  and 
talked  with  as  much  cheerfulness  as  usual.  He  suddenly  became 
insensible,  and  his  spirit  departed  without  pain.  On  examination 
it  was  the  general  opinion  that  he  could  not  have  lived  long. 
This  was  also  Dr  Holland’s  opinion.  The  account  I have 
endeavoured  to  give  you  is  merely  what  I have  been  able  to 
gather,  but  the  family  of  course  are  in  too  great  distress  to  enter 
into  details. 

(. Extract  of  letter  from  John  M.  Kemble  to 
Fanny  Kemble1. ) 

It  is  with  feelings  of  inexpressible  pain  that  I announce  to 
you  the  death  of  poor  Arthur  Hallam,  who  expired  suddenly 
from  an  attack  of  apoplexy  at  Vienna,  on  the  15th  of  last 


1 Given  me  by  Miss  Cobbe. 


ig6 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


1833 


month.  Though  this  was  always  feared  by  us  as  likely  to  occur, 
the  shock  has  been  a bitter  one  to  bear : and  most  of  all  so  to 
the  Tennysons,  whose  sister  Emily  he  was  to  have  married.  I 
have  not  yet  had  the  courage  to  write  to  Alfred.  This  is  a loss 
which  will  most  assuredly  be  felt  by  this  age,  for  if  ever  man 
was  born  for  great  things  he  was.  Never  was  a more  powerful 
intellect  joined  to  a purer  and  holier  heart;  and  the  whole 
illuminated  with  the  richest  imagination,  with  the  most  sparkling 
yet  the  kindest  wit.  One  cannot  lament  for  him  that  he  is  gone 
to  a far  better  life,  but  we  weep  over  his  coffin  and  wonder  that 
we  cannot  be  consoled : the  Roman  epitaph  on  two  young 
children  Sibimet  ipsis  dolorem  abs  title  runt,  suis  reliquere  (from 
themselves  they  took  away  pain,  to  their  friends  they  left  it !)  is 
alway  present  to  my  mind,  and  somehow  the  miserable  feeling 
of  loneliness  comes  over  one  even  though  one  knows  that  the 
dead  are  happier  than  the  living.  His  poor  father  was  with  him 
only;  they  had  been  travelling  together  in  Hungary  and  were 
on  their  return  to  England ; but  there  had  been  nothing  what- 
ever to  announce  the  fatal  termination  of  their  journey  ; indeed 
bating  fatigue  Arthur  had  been  unusually  well. 


On  December  30th  Henry  Hallam  wrote  to  my 
father  as  follows: 

It  may  remove  some  anxiety  from  the  minds  of  yourself  and 
others  to  know  that  the  mortal  part  of  our  dearest  Arthur  will 
be  interred  at  Clevedon  on  Friday.  I leave  town  to-morrow. 
My  first  thought  was  not  to  write  to  you  till  all  was  over : but 
you  may  have  been  apprehensive  for  the  safety  of  the  vessel.  I 
did  not  expect  her  arrival  so  soon.  Use  your  own  discretion 
about  telling  your  sister.  Mrs  H.  is  very  anxious  to  hear  about 
her;  if  not  too  painful  to  her,  Miss  Tennyson  will  have  the 
kindness  to  write.  Do  your  utmost,  my  dear  young  friend,  to 
support  her  and  yourself.  Give  as  little  way  to  grief  as  you 
may.  But  I feel  that  my  own  rather  increases  with  time;  yet 
I find  also  that  both  occupation  and  conversation  are  very 
serviceable.  I fear  the  solitary  life  you  both  lead  in  the  country 
is  sadly  unpropitious.  We  are  now  all  well,  though  my  boy 1 is 
not  as  vigorous  as  he  should  be.  God  bless  you  all. 

Affectionately  yours,  H.  H. 

1 Harry  Hallam. 


BURIAL  OF  ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


107 


1834] 

In  the  letters  from  Arthur  Hallam’s  friends  there  was 
a rare  unanimity  of  opinion  about  his  worth.  Milnes, 
writing  to  his  father,  says  that  he  had  a “ very  deep 
respect  ” for  Hallam,  and  that  Thirlwall,  in  after  years 
the  great  Bishop,  for  whom  Hallam  and  my  father  had 
a profound  affection,  was  “ actually  captivated  by  him.” 
When  at  Cambridge  with  Hallam  he  had  written  : “ He 
is  the  only  man  here  of  my  own  standing  before  whom 
I bow  in  conscious  inferiority  in  everything.”  Alford 
writes:  “Hallam  was  a man  of  wonderful  mind  and 
knowledge  on  all  subjects,  hardly  credible  at  his  age.... 
I long  ago  set  him  down  for  the  most  wonderful  person 
I ever  knew.  He  was  of  the  most  tender,  affectionate 
disposition.” 

So  “ those  whose  eyes  must  long  be  dim  with  tears,” 
Henry  Hallam  says,  “ brought  him  home  to  rest  among 
his  kindred  and  in  his  own  country  ” : and  the  burial 
took  place  on  Jan.  3rd,  1834,  in  the  lonely  church  which 
overlooks  the  Bristol  Channel. 

On  the  evening  of  one  of  these  sad 1 winter  days  my 
father  had  already  noted  down  in  his  scrap-book  some 
fragmentary  lines,  which  proved  to  be  the  germ  of  “In 
Memoriam  ” : 

Where  is  the  voice  I loved  ? ah  where 
Is  that  dear  hand  that  I would  press  ? 

Lo ! the  broad  heavens  cold  and  bare, 

The  stars  that  know  not  my  distress ! 

Ji,  Ji,  ja. 

W '7?'  W W W 

The  vapour  labours  up  the  sky, 

Uncertain  forms  are  darkly  moved! 

Larger  than  human  passes  by 
The  shadow  of  the  man  I loved, 

And  clasps  his  hands,  as  one  that  prays ! 

1 Francis  Garden  had  written  to  Trench,  Nov.  26th,  1833:  “When  in 
London,  I saw  a letter  from  poor  Alfred  Tennyson.  Both  himself  and  his 
family  seemed  plunged  in  the  deepest  affliction.” 


io8 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l834 


Later,  Henry  Hallam  writes  to  my  father: 

It  is  my  intention  to  print,  for  private  friends  only,  a few  of 
those  pieces  which  have  already  appeared,  with  some  poems  and 
perhaps  prose  papers  that  I have  in  my  possession.  Several  of 
those  printed  in  1830,  and  a certain  number  that  are  in  manu- 
script, will  be  included.  It  will  be  necessary  to  prefix  a short 
memoir.  I must  rely  on  his  contemporaries  and  most  intimate 
friends  to  furnish  me  with  part  of  my  materials ; and  I should 
wish  to  have  anything  that  may  be  thought  most  worthy  of 
being  mentioned,  communicated  to  me  by  letter.  Perhaps  you 
would  do  something.  I should  desire  to  have  the  character  of 
his  mind,  his  favourite  studies  and  pursuits,  his  habits  and  views 
delineated.  I shall  not  apply  to  too  many  persons;  but  it  has 
been  suggested  to  me  that  Spedding  will  be  better  able  to  assist 
me  than  any  one  else.  I do  not  know  whether  this  is  the  case, 
nor  do  I know  Mr  S.’s  direction.  It  is  somewhere  in  Cumberland. 
I shall  be  most  happy  if  you  can  give  me  a better  account  than 
the  last  we  have  had  of  your  sister ; we  all  unite  in  kindest  love 
to  all. 

Most  truly  yours,  Henry  Hallam1. 

To  this  volume  of  collected  poems  and  essays,  pub- 
lished some  time  after,  Henry  Hallam  prefixed  an  intro- 
duction, in  which  he  said  “ Arthur  seemed  to  tread  the 
earth  as  a spirit  from  a better  world.”  Arthur’s  old 
Eton  friend  Gladstone  wrote : “ When  much  time  has 
elapsed,  when  most  bereavements  will  be  forgotten,  he 
will  still  be  remembered,  and  his  place,  I fear,  will  be 
felt  to  be  still  vacant,  singularly  as  his  mind  was  calcu- 
lated by  its  native  tendencies  to  work  powerfully  and 
for  good,  in  an  age  full  of  import  to  the  nature  and 
destinies  of  man.” 

In  consequence  of  her  sudden  and  terrible  grief  my 
aunt  Emily  was  ill  for  many  months,  and  very  slowly 
recovered.  “We  were  waiting  for  her,”  writes  one  of 
her  friends,  “ in  the  drawing-room  the  first  day  since  her 

1 See  Appendix,  p.  498,  for  Letters  about  Arthur  Hallam. 


FIRST  MS  SECTIONS  OF  “ IN  MEMORIAM.” 


IO9 


loss  that  she  had  been  able  to  meet  anyone,  and  she 
came  at  last,  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  a shadow  of  her 
former  self,  but  with  one  white  rose  in  her  black  hair  as 
her  Arthur  loved  to  see  her.” 

“ The  Two  Voices  ” or  “ Thoughts  of  a Suicide  ” was 
begun  under  the  cloud  of  this  overwhelming  sorrow, 
which,  as  my  father  told  me,  for  a while  blotted  out  all 
joy  from  his  life,  and  made  him  long  for  death,  in  spite 
of  his  feeling  that  he  was  in  some  measure  a help  and 
comfort  to  his  sister.  But  such  a first  friendship  and 
such  a loss  helped  to  reveal  himself  to  himself,  while  he 
enshrined  his  sorrow  in  his  song.  Tennant  writes: 
“ Alfred  although  much  broken  in  spirits  is  yet  able  to 
divert  his  thoughts  from  gloomy  brooding,  and  keep  his 
mind  in  activity.” 

In  the  earliest  manuscript  of  “The  Two  Voices”  a 
fine  verse  is  found  which  was  omitted  in  the  published 
edition  as  too  dismal  (after  “under  earth”). 

From  when  his  baby  pulses  beat 
To  when  his  hands  in  their  last  heat 
Pick  at  the  death-mote  in  the  sheet. 

Then  in  the  same  manuscript-book  come  the  first 
written  sections  of  “ In  Memoriam,”  in  the  following 
order: 

Fair  ship  that  from  the  Italian  shore. 

( written  on  a stray  sheet ) 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall. 

It  draweth  near  the  birth  of  Christ. 

And  between  “ With  trembling  fingers  ” and  “ When 
Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave  ” he  has  written  the  first 
draft  of  his  “ Morte  d’Arthur.” 


I IO 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l83  U 


Unpublished  Poems  of  this  Period. 

The  Statesman* 

They  wrought  a work  which  Time  reveres, 
A pure  example  to  the  lands, 

Further  and  further  reaching  hands 
For  ever  into  coming  years ; 

They  worshipt  Freedom  for  her  sake; 

We  faint  unless  the  wanton  ear 
Be  tickled  with  the  loud  “ hear,  hear,” 

To  which  the  slight-built  hustings  shake; 

For  where  is  he,  the  citizen, 

Deep-hearted,  moderate,  firm,  who  sees 
His  path  before  him?  not  with  these, 
Shadows  of  statesmen,  clever  men ! 

Uncertain  of  ourselves  we  chase 

The  clap  of  hands ; we  jar  like  boys : 
And  in  the  hurry  and  the  noise 
Great  spirits  grow  akin  to  base. 

A sound  of  words  that  change  to  blows ! 

A sound  of  blows  on  armed  breasts ! 

And  individual  interests 
Becoming  bands  of  armed  foes ! 

A noise  of  hands  that  disarrange 
The  social  engine ! fears  that  waste 
The  strength  of  men,  lest  overhaste 
Should  fire  the  many  wheels  of  change  1 


Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


“the  statesman.” 

Ill  fares  a people  passion-wrought, 

A land  of  many  days  that  cleaves 

In  two  great  halves,  when  each  one  leaves 

The  middle  road  of  sober  thought ! 

Not  he  that  breaks  the  dams,  but  he 
That  thro’  the  channels  of  the  state 
Convoys  the  people’s  wish,  is  great  ; 

His  name  is  pure,  his  fame  is  free: 

He  cares,  if  ancient  usage  fade, 

To  shape,  to  settle,  to  repair, 

With  seasonable  changes  fair, 

And  innovation  grade  by  grade : 

Or,  if  the  sense  of  most  require 
A precedent  of  larger  scope, 

Not  deals  in  threats,  but  works  with  hope, 

And  lights  at  length  on  his  desire : 

Knowing  those  laws  are  just  alone 
That  contemplate  a mighty  plan, 

The  frame,  the  mind,  the  soul  of  man, 

Like  one  that  cultivates  his  own. 

He,  seeing  far  an  end  sublime, 

Contends,  despising  party-rage, 

To  hold  the  Spirit  of  the  Age 

Against  the  Spirit  of  the  Time. 


I 12 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[l833 


I^33* 

Youth* 

I 

Youth,  lapsing  thro’  fair  solitudes, 

Pour’d  by  long  glades  and  meadowy  mounds, 
Crown’d  with  soft  shade  her  deepening  floods 
That  wash’d  her  shores  with  blissful  sounds : 

Her  silver  eddies  in  their  play 

Drove  into  lines  and  studs  of  light 
The  image  of  the  sun  by  day, 

The  image  of  the  moon  by  night. 

The  months,  ere  they  began  to  rise, 

Sent  thro’  my  blood  a prophet  voice 
Before  the  first  white  butterflies, 

And  where  the  secret  streams  rejoice. 

I heard  Spring  laugh  in  hidden  rills, 

Summer  thro’  all  her  sleepy  leaves 
Murmur’d : a voice  ran  round  the  hills 
When  corny  Lammas  bound  the  sheaves: 

A voice,  when  night  had  crept  on  high, 

To  snowy  crofts  and  winding  scars, 

Rang  like  a trumpet  clear  and  dry, 

And  shook  the  frosty  winter  stars. 

When  I was  somewhat  older  grown 
These  voices  did  not  cease  to  cry, 

Only  they  took  a sweeter  tone, 

But  did  not  sound  so  joyfully: 

Lower  and  deeper  evermore 

They  grew,  and  they  began  at  last 
To  speak  of  what  had  gone  before, 

And  how  all  things  become  the  past. 

• Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


1833]  “ YOUTH.”  I I 3 

Life,  to  this  wind,  turn’d  all  her  vanes, 

Moan’d  in  her  chimneys  and  her  eaves ; 

I grieved  as  woods  in  dripping  rains 
Sigh  over  all  their  fallen  leaves; 

Beside  my  door  at  morning  stood 
The  tearful  spirit  of  the  time ; 

He  moan’d,  “ I wander  from  my  good ! ” 

He  chanted  some  old  doleful  rhyme. 

So  lived  I without  aim  or  choice, 

Still  humming  snatches  of  old  song, 

Till  suddenly  a sharper  voice 

Cried  in  the  future  “ Come  along.” 

When  to  this  sound  my  face  I turn’d, 

Intent  to  follow  on  the  track, 

Again  the  low  sweet  voices  mourn’d 

In  distant  fields,  “ Come  back,  come  back.” 

Confused,  and  ceasing  from  my  quest, 

I loiter’d  in  the  middle  way, 

So  pausing  ’twixt  the  East  and  West, 

I found  the  Present  where  I stay: 

Now  idly  in  my  natal  bowers, 

Unvext  by  doubts  I cannot  solve, 

I sit  among  the  scentless  flowers 

And  see  and  hear  the  world  revolve: 

Yet  well  I know  that  nothing  stays, 

And  I must  traverse  yonder  plain : 

Sooner  or  later  from  the  haze 

The  second  voice  will  peal  again. 


T.  I. 


8 


ARTHUR  HALLAM. 


[1833 


114 


II 

A rumour  of  a mystery, 

A noise  of  winds  that  meet  and  blend, 

An  energy,  an  agony, 

A labour  working  to  an  end. 

Now  shall  I rest  or  shall  I rise? 

It  is  the  early  morning,  Hark! 

A voice  like  many  voices  cries, 

Comes  hither  throbbing  thro’  the  dark; 

Now  one  faint  line  of  light  doth  glow, 

I follow  to  the  morning  sun, 

Behind  yon  hill  the  trumpets  blow, 

And  there  is  something  greatly  done : 

The  voice  cries  “ Come.”  Upon  the  brink 
A solitary  fortress  burns, 

And  shadows  strike  and  shadows  sink, 

And  Heaven  is  dark  and  bright  by  turns. 

“Come”  and  I come,  the  wind  is  strong: 
Hush ! there  floats  upward  from  the  gulf 

A murmur  of  heroic  song, 

A howling  of  the  mountain  wolf ; 

A tempest  strikes  the  craggy  walls, 

Faint  shouts  are  heard  across  the  glen, 

A moan  of  many  waterfalls, 

And  in  the  pauses  groans  of  men. 

“ Come  ” and  I come,  no  more  I sleep : 

The  thunder  cannot  make  thee  dumb; 

“ Come  ” and  I come,  the  vale  is  deep, 

My  heart  is  dark,  but  yet  I come. 


1833]  “ YOUTH.”  1 1 5 

Up  hither  have  I found  my  way, 

The  latest  thunder-peal  hath  peal’d, 

Down  from  the  summit  sweeps  the  day 
And  rushes  o’er  a boundless  field. 

Out  bursts  a rainbow  in  the  sky  — 

Away  with  shadows  ! On  they  move ! 

Beneath  those  double  arches  lie 

Fair  with  green  fields  the  realms  of  Love. 

The  whole  land  glitters  after  rain, 

Thro’  wooded  isles  the  river  shines, 

The  casements  sparkle  on  the  plain, 

The  towers  gleam  among  the  vines; 

“ Come  ” and  I come,  and  all  comes  back 
Which  in  that  early  voice  was  sweet, 

Yet  am  I dizzy  in  the  track, 

A light  wind  wafts  me  from  my  feet. 

Warm  beats  my  blood,  my  spirit  thirsts; 

Fast  by  me  flash  the  cloudy  streaks, 

And  from  the  golden  vapour  bursts 
A mountain  bright  with  triple  peaks: 

With  all  his  groves  he  bows,  he  nods, 

The  clouds  unswathe  them  from  the  height, 

And  there  sit  figures  as  of  Gods 

Ray’d  round  with  beams  of  living  light. 


8—2 


CHAPTER  V.* 


THE  1832  VOLUME  (dated  1833). 
SOLITUDE  AND  WORK  (1833-1835). 

Mighty  the  voices  of  earth,  which  are  dull’d  by  the  voices  that  say : 
“ All  of  us  drift  into  darkness,  wherein  we  shall  all  pass  away  ! ” 
Better  to  pass  then  at  once  than  seeing  the  darkness  to  stay, 

But  for  a mightier  Voice  which  was  born  of  the  Dawn  of  the  Day. 


It  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 

But  in  the  teeth  of  clench’d  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest. 

Before  following  further  the  thread  of  the  life,  I 
must  set  down  here  certain  notes  upon  the  1832  volume 
by  my  father  and  by  Edward  Fitzgerald,  omitted  from 
the  last  chapter,  in  order  not  to  interrupt  the  sequence  of 
Arthur  Hallams  letters. 

Fitzgerald  writes  on  “The  Lady  of  Shalott”: 

Well  I remember  this  poem,  read  to  me,  before  I knew  the 
author,  at  Cambridge  one  night  in  1832  or  3,  and  its  images 
passing  across  my  head,  as  across  the  magic  mirror,  while  half 
asleep  on  the  mail  coach  to  London  “ in  the  creeping  dawn  ” 
that  followed.1 

The  key  to  this  tale  of  magic  “ symbolism  ” is  of  deep 
human  significance,  and  is  to  be  found  in  the  lines : 

'MS  Note,  E.  F.  G. 

* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

116 


1833] 


THE  MILLER’S  DAUGHTER.” 


I 17 


Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 

Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed; 

“ I am  half  sick  of  shadows,”  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Canon  Ainger  in  his  Tennyson  for  the  Young  quotes 
the  following  interpretation,  given  him  by  my  father: 

The  new-born  love  for  something,  for  some  one  in  the  wide 
world  from  which  she  has  been  so  long  secluded,  takes  her  out 
of  the  region  of  shadows  into  that  of  realities. 

The  idea  of  “ Mariana  in  the  South  ” came  to  my  father 
as  he  was  travelling  between  Narbonne  and  Perpignan1, 
and  foreign  critics  have  found  out  and  have  appreciated 
this  representation  of  southern  France. 

The  first  original  manuscript  verse  of  “ The  Miller’s 
Daughter,”  which  he  altered  both  before  and  after  publi- 
cation, seemed  to  Fitzgerald  too  good  to  be  lost : 

I met  in  all  the  close  green  ways, 

While  walking  with  my  rod  and  line, 

The  miller  with  his  mealy  face, 

And  long’d  to  take  his  hand  in  mine. 

He  look’d  so  jolly  and  so  good  — 

While  fishing  in  the  milldam-water, 

I laugh’d  to  see  him  as  he  stood, 

And  dreamt  not  of  the  miller’s  daughter. 

“This  poem,”  Fitzgerald  writes,  “as  may  be  seen,  is 
much  altered  and  enlarged  from  the  first  edition  of  1832  ; 
in  some  respects,  I think,  not  for  the  better;  losing 
somewhat  of  the  easy  character  of  ‘ talk  across  the 
walnuts  and  the  wine.’”  It  shows  the  poet’s  especial 
love  of  setting  his  human  beings  in  a landscape  which 
is  strictly  in  harmony  with  the  subject  of  the  poem. 
“ The  mill  was  no  particular  mill,”  my  father  writes ; “if 

1 See  letter  from  Arthur  Hallam  on  “ Mariana  in  the  South  ” in  Appendix, 
p.  500. 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


1 18 


[1833- 


I thought  at  all  of  any  mill  it  was  that  of  Trumpington 
near  Cambridge.” 

From  the  volume  of  1832  he  omitted  several  stanzas 
of  “ The  Palace  of  Art  ” because  he  thought  that  the 
poem  was  too  full.  “ The  artist  is  known  by  his  self- 
limitation ” was  a favourite  adage  of  his.  He  allowed  me 
however  to  print  some  of  them  in  my  notes,  otherwise  I 
should  have  hesitated  to  quote  without  his  leave  lines 
that  he  had  excised.  He  “gave  the  people  of  his  best,” 
and  he  usually  wished  that  his  best  should  remain  without 
variorum  readings,  “ the  chips  of  the  workshop,”  as  he 
called  them.  The  love  of  bibliomaniacs  for  first  editions 
filled  him  with  horror,  for  the  first  editions  are  obviously 
in  many  cases  the  worst  editions ; and  once  he  said  to 
me : 

“ Why  do  they  treasure  the  rubbish  I shot  from 
my  full-finish’d  cantos  ? 

VTjTjioi  ov 8e  Lcraoriv  ocrco  7 t\4ov  yjfJLKTv  ttolvtos” 

For  himself  many  passages  in  Wordsworth  and  other 
poets  had  been  entirely  spoilt  by  the  modern  habit  of 
giving  every  various  reading  along  with  the  text.  Be- 
sides, in  his  case,  very  often  what  is  published  as  the 
latest  edition  has  been  the  original  version  in  his  first 
manuscript,  so  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  really  tracing 
the  history  of  what  may  seem  to  be  a new  word  or  a 
new  passage.  “ For  instance,”  he  said,  “ in  ‘ Maud  ’ a 
line  in  the  first  edition  was  ‘ I will  bury  myself  in  my 
books , and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own,’  which  was 
afterwards  altered  to  ‘ I will  bury  myself  in  myself,  etc.’ : 
this  was  highly  commended  by  the  critics  as  an  im- 
provement on  the  original  reading — but  it  was  actually 
in  the  first  MS  draft  of  the  poem.” 

In  1890  he  wrote  the  following  notes:  “ Trench  said 
to  me,  when  we  were  at  Trinity  together,  ‘ Tennyson, 
we  cannot  live  in  art.’”  ‘“The  Palace  of  Art’  is  the 


1835]  “THE  PALACE  OF  ART.”  II9 

embodiment  of  my  own  belief  that  the  Godlike  life  is 
with  man  and  for  man,  that 

Beauty,  Good  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters... 
That  never  can  be  sunder’d  without  tears. 

And  he  that  shuts  out  Love,  in  turn  shall  be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie, 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.” 

“ When  I first  conceived  the  plan  of  the  poem,  I 
intended  to  have  introduced  both  sculptures  and  paint- 
ings into  it,  but  I only  finished  two  sculptures. 

One  was  the  Tishbite  whom  the  raven  fed, 

As  when  he  stood  on  Carmel-steeps 
With  one  arm  stretch’d  out  bare,  and  mock’d  and  said, 
‘ Come,  cry  aloud,  he  sleeps.’ 

Tall,  eager,  lean  and  strong,  his  cloak  wind-borne 
Behind,  his  forehead  heavenly  bright 
From  the  clear  marble  pouring  glorious  scorn, 

Lit  as  with  inner  light. 

One  was  Olympias ; the  floating  snake 
Roll’d  round  her  ankles,  round  her  waist 
Knotted,  and  folded  once  about  her  neck, 

Her  perfect  lips  to  taste, 

Down  from  the  shoulder  moved  : she  seeming  blithe 
Declined  her  head : on  every  side 
The  dragon’s  curves  melted,  and  mingled  with 
The  woman’s  youthful  pride 
Of  rounded  limbs  — 

After  the  old  verse  xxvi  was 

‘ From  shape  to  shape  at  first  within  the  womb 
The  brain  is  moulded,’  she  began, 

‘ And  thro’  all  phases  of  all  thought  I come 
Unto  the  perfect  man. 


120  SOLITUDE  AND  WORK.  [1833- 

All  nature  widens  upward.  Evermore 
The  simpler  essence  lower  lies, 

More  complex  is  more  perfect,  owning  more 
Discourse,  more  widely  wise.’ 

In  the  centre  of  the  four  quadrangles  of  the  palace 
is  a tower. 

Hither,  when  all  the  deep  unsounded  skies 
Shudder’d  with  silent  stars,  she  clomb, 

And  as  with  optic  glasses  her  keen  eyes 
Pierced  thro’  the  mystic  dome, 

Regions  of  lucid  matter  taking  forms, 

Brushes  of  fire,  hazy  gleams, 

Clusters  and  beds  of  worlds,  and  bee-like  swarms 
Of  suns,  and  starry  streams. 

She  saw  the  snowy  poles  and  Moons  of  Mars, 

That  mystic  field  of  drifted  light 

In  mid  Orion,  and  the  married  stars. 

The  ‘ Moons  of  Mars  ’ is  the  only  modern  reading 
here,  all  the  rest  are  more  than  half  a century  old.” 

After  perusing  the  “ marvellously  compressed  word- 
pictures  of  this  poem,”  Fitzgerald  appends  a personal 
note  to  “sat  smiling  babe  in  arm.” 

I remember  A.  T.1  admiring  the  abstracted  look  of  a Murillo 
Madonna  at  Dulwich  ; the  eyes  of  which  are  on  you,  but  seem 
“ looking  at  something  beyond,  beyond  the  Actual  into  Abstrac- 
tion.” This  has  been  noticed  of  some  great  men  ; it  is  the  trance 
of  the  Seer  : I do  not  remember  seeing  it  in  A.  T.  himself  ; 
great  as  he  was  from  top  to  toe,  and  his  eyes  dark,  powerful 
and  serene2. 

He  was  still  afraid  of  blindness,  which  his  brother  Frederick 
said  might  accompany  the  perception  of  the  inward  Sublime  as 
in  Homer  and  Milton.  The  names  of  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo 

1 Fitzgerald  generally  calls  my  father  A.  T. 

2 Fitzgerald  afterwards  altered  his  mind  and  wrote:  “I  have  seen  it  in 
his  (A.  T.’s).  Some  American  spoke  of  the  same  in  Wordsworth.  I suppose 
it  may  be  the  same  with  all  poets." 


1835]  “A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN.”  121 

in  (the  original  form  of)  this  poem  remind  me  that  once  looking 
with  A.  T.  at  two  busts  of  Dante  and  Goethe  in  a shop  window 
in  Regent  Street,  I said,  “What  is  there  wanting  in  Goethe 
which  the  other  has  ? ” “ The  Divine 1 ! ” 

After  visiting  Italy  some  twenty  years  after  this  poem  was 
written,  he  told  me  he  had  been  prepared  for  Raffaelle  but  not  for 
Michael  Angelo  : whose  picture  at  Florence  of  a Madonna  drag- 
ging a “ ton  of  a child  ” over  one  shoulder  almost  revolted  him  at 
first,  but  drew  him  toward  itself  afterwards,  and  “would  not  out 
of  memory.”  I forget  if  he  saw  the  Dresden  Raffaelle2,  but  he 
would  speak  of  the  Child  in  it  as  “ perhaps  finer  than  the  whole 
composition,  in  so  far  as  one’s  eyes  are  more  concentrated  on  the 
subject.  The  child  seems  to  me  the  furthest  reach  of  human 
art.  His  attitude  is  a man’s:  his  countenance  a Jupiter’s  — 
perhaps  too  much  so.”  But  when  A.  T.  had  a babe  of  his  own, 
he  saw  it  was  not  “ too  much  so.”  “ I am  afraid  of  him  : babies 
have  an  expression  of  grandeur  which  children  lose,  a look  of 
awe  and  wonder.  I used  to  think  the  old  painters  overdid  the 
expression  and  dignity  of  their  infant  Christs,  but  I see  they 
didn’t.  This  morning  * * * lay  half-an-hour  worshipping  the 
bed-post  on  which  the  sunlight  flickered  (pure  nature  worship)3  . 
‘ If,’  as  old  Hallam  said,  ‘ one  could  have  the  history  of  a babe’s 
mind ! ’ ” 

The  “ Dream  of  Fair  Women  ” began  in  the  first 
edition  of  1832  with  some  stanzas  about  a man  sailing 
in  a balloon,  but  my  father  did  not  like  the  “balloon 
stanzas  ” so  they  were  cut  out.  As  Edward  Fitzgerald 
said  to  him,  “ They  make  a perfect  poem  by  themselves 
without  affecting  the  ‘ dream.’  ” 

As  when  a man  that  sails  in  a balloon, 

Down-looking  sees  the  solid  shining  ground 

Stream  from  beneath  him  in  the  broad  blue  noon, 
Tilth,  hamlet,  mead  and  mound: 

1 To  me,  he  said,  ‘‘The  Divine  intensity and  possibly  the  same  to 
Fitzgerald.  H.  T. 

2 He  went  to  Dresden  on  purpose  to  see  this  great  picture. 

3 “Afterwards  he  took  to  fetish-worship  — the  worship  of  a gilded  doll  sent 
him  by  Lear.”  A.  T. 


122 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


1833- 


And  takes  his  flags  and  waves  them  to  the  mob, 
That  shout  below,  all  faces  turn’d  to  where 
Glows  rubylike  the  far-up  crimson  globe, 

Fill’d  with  a finer  air: 


So,  lifted  high,  the  poet  at  his  will 

Lets  the  great  world  flit  from  him,  seeing  all, 
Higher  thro’  secret  splendours  mounting  still, 
Self-poised,  nor  fears  to  fall, 

Hearing  apart  the  echoes  of  his  fame. 

While  I spoke  thus,  the  seedsman,  Memory, 
Sow’d  my  deep-furrow’d  thought  with  many  a name 
Whose  glory  will  not  die. 

From  the  letters  of  that  time  I gather  that  there  was 
a strong  current  of  depreciation  of  my  father  in  certain 
literary  quarters.  However  he  kept  up  his  courage, 
profited  by  friendly  and  unfriendly  criticism,  and  in  si- 
lence, obscurity,  and  solitude,  perfected  his  art.  “ First 
the  workman  is  known  for  his  work,  afterwards  the 
work  for  the  workman  ” : but  it  is  “ only  the  concise 
and  perfect  work,”  he  thought,  “ which  will  last  k ” 

That  the  volume  of  1832  was  partially  successful 
(three  hundred  copies  having  been  sold)  is  obvious  from 
the  fact  that  Moxon  was  eager  to  publish  more  by  him. 
Later  an  appreciative  article  by  John  Stuart  Mill  in  the 
London  Review  (July  1835)  was  a great  encouragement. 
Friendly  critics,  like  G.  S.  Venables,  wrote  that  his  poems 
had  too  much  concentrated  power  and  thought,  were 
too  imaginative  and  too  largely  imbued  with  the  “ inner- 
most magic,”  easily  to  excite  popular  interest,  or  to  be 
read  at  once  by  those  whom  he  specially  wished  to 
influence.  Kemble  had  said,  “ In  Alfred’s  mind  the 
materials  of  the  greatest  works  are  heaped  in  an  abun- 
dance which  is  almost  confusion.”  Notwithstanding  all 


1 A.  T. 


HIS  HAND  ON  THE  LEVER. 


123 


1835] 

hostile  criticism,  he  had  impressed  himself  deeply  on  a 
limited  number  of  minds.  He  now  began  to  base  his 
poetry  more  on  the  “ broad  and  common  interests  of  the 
time  and  of  universal  humanity,”  although  no  doubt  it 
was  harder  to  idealize  such  themes  than  those  that 
appealed  mostly  to  the  imagination.  The  great  Catholic 
painters  could  express  what  was  at  the  same  time  ideal 
and  real  in  the  minds  of  the  people  : but  the  modern 
artist  has  hardly  ever  found  similar  objects  of  high 
imagination  and  intense  popular  feeling  for  his  art  to 
work  upon.  If,  wrote  Venables,  in  a contemporary 
letter  to  my  father,  an  artist  could  only  now  find  out 
where  these  objects  are,  he  would  be  the  artist  of 
modern  times.  Venables  affirmed  they  were  not  to  be 
sought  in  any  transient  fashions  of  thought,  but  in  the 
“convergent  tendencies  of  many  opinions”  on  religion, 
art  and  nature,  — of  which  tendencies  he  and  others 
believed,  he  said,  that  my  father,  with  his  commanding 
intellect,  and  conspicuous  moral  courage,  ought  to  be  the 
artistic  exponent  and  unifier.  My  father  pondered  all 
that  had  been  said  and  — after  a period  of  utter  prostra- 
tion from  grief,  and  many  dark  fits  of  blank  despondency 
— his  passionate  love  of  truth,  of  nature,  and  of  human- 
ity, drove  him  to  work  again,  with  a deeper  and  a fuller 
insight  into  the  requirements  of  the  age. 

H is  resolve 

Upbore  him  and  firm  faith  — 

And  beating  up  thro’  all  the  bitter  world, 

Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 

Kept  him  a living  soul  \ 

Two  pathetic  lines  of  his  written  at  this  time  are  left : 
O leave  not  thou  thy  son  forlorn; 

Teach  me,  great  Nature : make  me  live. 

“ Perpetual  idleness,”  he  would  say,  “ must  be  one  of 


1 “Enoch  Arden.” 


124 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l833- 

the  punishments  of  Hell.”  Hundreds  of  lines  were,  as 
he  expressed  it,  “ blown  up  the  chimney  with  his  pipe- 
smoke,  or  were  written  down  and  thrown  into  the  fire, 
as  not  being  then  perfect  enough.”  “ The  Brook  ” in 
later  years  was  actually  rescued  from  the  waste-paper 
heap. 

He  lived  for  the  most  part  at  Somersby,  and  I give  a 
list  of  his  week’s  work ; which  he  drew  up. 


Monday . 
Tuesday . 
Wednesday. 
Thursday. 

Saturday. 
Sunday. 
Next  Week. 
Third  Week. 


History,  German. 

Chemistry,  German. 

Botany,  German. 

Electricity,  German. 

Animal  Physiology,  German. 
Mechanics. 

Theology. 

Italian  in  the  afternoon. 
Greek.  Evenings.  Poetry. 


Unpublished  Poem  of  this  Period. 

The  Mother  s Ghost. 

Not  a whisper  stirs  the  gloom, 

It  will  be  the  dawning  soon, 

We  may  glide  from  room  to  room, 

In  the  glimmer  of  the  moon  : 

Every  heart  is  lain  to  rest, 

All  the  house  is  fast  in  sleep, 

Were  I not  a spirit  blest, 

Sisters,  I could  almost  weep  ! 

In  that  cradle  sleeps  my  child, 

She  whose  birth  brought  on  my  bliss: 
On  her  forehead  undefiled 
I will  print  an  airy  kiss : 


1835] 


Montgomery’s  judgment. 


125 


See,  she  dreameth  happy  dreams, 

Her  hands  are  folded  quietly, 

Like  to  one  of  us  she  seems, 

One  of  us  my  child  will  be. 

Now  and  then,  when  he  could  save  up  a little  hoard, 
he  went  to  London  or  to  visit  his  friends  in  their  homes. 
From  the  occasional  letters  to  and  from  them  (1832-35) 
we  can  see  something  of  what  his  life  was  and  the  im- 
pression which  his  work  was  then  making. 

Brookfield  writes  from  Sheffield : 

You  and  Rob  Montgomery  are  our  only  brewers  now!  A 
propos  to  the  latter,  Jingling  James,  his  namesake,  dined  with 
us  last  week.  And  now  for  a smack  of  Boswell. 

Brookfield . Glass  of  wine  after  your  fish  ? Montgomery. 
Thank  you,  sir ! B.  Which  vegetable,  sir  ? M.  A potato,  if  you 
please ! B.  Another,  sir ! M.  That  will  do,  I thank  you. 
B.  Talking  of  potatoes,  sir,  have  you  read  Alfred  Tennyson  ? 
M.  Only  in  the  reviews  yet,  but  there  are  two  brothers,  aren’t 
there  ? B.  Both  “ rather  pretty,”  but  Alfred  alone  has  been 
extracted  at  any  length  in  the  reviews.  M.  He  has  very 
wealthy  and  luxurious  thought  and  great  beauty  of  expression, 
and  is  a poet.  But  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  improvement,  and 
I would  have  it  so.  Your  trim  correct  young  writers  seldom 
turn  out  well.  A young  poet  should  have  a great  deal  which 
he  can  afford  to  throw  away  as  he  gets  older.  Tennyson  can 
afford  this.  But  I can  say  little  of  one  of  whom  I have  seen 
so  little. 

I sent  him  copies  of  both  you  and  Charles  yesterday,  and 
met  him  in  the  street  this  morning.  He  said  he  was  going  out 
of  town,  but  we  would  talk  about  you  when  he  came  back  and 
read  you.  “I  read,”  said  he,  ‘‘twelve  of  the  sonnets  last  night, 
which  if  I had  not  liked  them  better  than  other  sonnets  I could 
not  have  done.  There  are  great  outbreaks  of  poetry  in  them.” 
Omitting  my  own  interjectional  queries,  etc.,  which  leave  to 
Jemmy’s  remarks  an  over-pompous  connectedness  which  they 
had  not  viva  voce,  I give  you  his  words  as  nearly  as  I remember. 
They  are  not  important,  but  we  generally  wish  to  know  what 


126 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l833 


is  said  of  us,  whether  trivial  or  not.  At  autopsychography  I am 
not  good,  if  I had  any  idiopsychology  to  autopsychographize.  I 
am  just  about  as  happy  as  a fish,  neither  excited  by  mirth,  nor 
depressed  by  sadness.  The  Clerk’s1  letter  awoke  me  rather  this 
morning ; if  he  be  yet  with  you  tell  him  it  had  been  good  service 
to  have  done  so  two  months  earlier.  Writing  from  Somersby 
where  there  is  so  much  to  prevent  one  from  thinking  of  any 
place  else  was  certainly  a meritorious  exertion,  and  it  has  brought 
my  pardon.  My  love  to  the  wretch,  and  let  him  know  he  shall 
expiate  his  neglect  by  silence  on  my  part,  until  I know  whether 
his  address  be  your  house.  Which  information  do  thou  give 
me  in  a day  or  two ; and  tell  me  all  about  Frederick  and 
Charles.  From  the  former  I never  could  worm  a letter  yet,  but 
unless  you  can  coax  so  much  of  him  without,  I shall  perhaps 
make  one  more  effort  shortly.  My  kindest  regards  to  all  your 
family. 

Ever,  dearest  Alfred,  yours, 


W.  H.  Brookfield. 


P.S.  I wish  very  much  you  would  make  a sonnet  for  me  as 
Hallam  once  did.  I could  not  value  it  more,  and  should  not 
less,  than  his.  It  may  be  that  I could  not  make  a more  boring 
request.  But  I will  incur  nine  chances  of  vexing  you  and 
thereby  myself  for  the  sake  of  the  tenth  of  getting  what  I want. 

At  this  time  Tennant  shot  an  arrow:  “May  your 
success  in  rhyming  vary  inversely  as  the  number  of 
letters  you  write ! ” and  Spedding  sent  to  Somersby  his 
Union  speech  on  Liberty,  which  had  gained  renown  in 
the  University.  The  poem  “ You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at 
ease  ” was  not,  as  is  often  stated,  “ an  edition  of  this 
speech  versified.”  My  father  said  to  me  that  he  and 
Spedding  freely  interchanged  their  political  views,  and 
that  therefore  it  was  not  unlikely  that  there  should  be  a 
similarity  of  thought  and  language.  He  did  not  think 


1 Charles  Turner. 


1833]  LETTER  TO  SPEDDING.  1 27 

that  he  had  ever  read  the  speech  when  he  wrote  the 
poem. 

He  wrote  to  Spedding,  begging  him  to  “ commend  ” 
a book  shortly  to  be  published  by  an  old  Louth  tutor  of 
his,  Mr  Dale : 


SOMERSBY, 

February  qth  (18331?). 


My  dear  James, 


I seize  upon  a halfsheet,  the  blank  half  of 
a printed  prospectus  of  a translation  of  the  “ Osman 
Sultan’s  campaigns  in  Western  Asia,  from  Bayezyd 
Ildirim  to  the  death  of  Murad  the  Fourth  (1389-1640), 
from  the  German  of  Joseph  Von  Hammer,  by  Thomas 
Aquila  Dale2,’’  indeed  mine  ancient  tutor  and  paidagogue 
in  times  of  yore.  Which  work  commend  everywhere, 
for,  I think,  he  is  likely  to  do  it  well,  and  the  book  will 
contain  a map  of  the  countries  from  Sinope  to  Tiflis, 
and  from  Odana  to  Bagdad.  Which  map  will  be  three 
feet  and  a half  by  two  and  a half,  and  you  will  grant  that 
our  literature  is  marvellously  deficient  in  works  of 
Oriental  History.  And  as  I said  before  the  man  is  mine 
ancient  and  trusty  paidagogue,  and  moreover  a good 
man,  and  one  that  is  publishing  at  a loss,  and  one  that  has 
not  two  cloaks,  wherefore  it  is  reasonable  that  you  should 
commend  his  book.  For  your  letter  I thank  you  heartily: 
my  thanks  have  lost  half  their  natural  vigour  and  beauty  ; 
however  you  must  recollect  that  half  your  epistle  was 
to  someone  else,  indeed  you  confessed  as  much  in  your 
P.  S.  Are  we  not  quits  then,  or  in  the  language  of  Mrs 
Jennings,  “Does  not  one  shoulder  of  mutton  drive  out 
another?  ” You  should  not  have  written  to  me  without 
telling  me  somewhat  that  was  interesting  to  myself 

1 The  letters  of  this  time  are  often  undated. 

2 Published  by  William  Straker,  West  Strand,  1835. 


128  SOLITUDE  AND  WORK.  [l833 

(always  the  first  consideration !)  or  that  bore  some  refer- 
ence to  you  and  yours  (always  the  second  !),  or  lastly, 
without  giving  me  some  news  of  the  great  world,  for 
know  you  not  I live  so  far  apart  from  the  bustle  of 
life  that  news  becomes  interesting  to  me  ? I assure 
you  that  we  have  a spare  bed  and  the  bed  is  not  so 
spare  either,  but  a bed  both  plump  and  pulpy,  and  fit 
for  “your  domeship1,’’  whenever  you  can  come  and  see 
us.  I express  myself  very  clumsily,  but  being  overawed 
by  the  memory  of  your  calm  personal  dignity  and  dome, 
and  melted  likewise  with  the  recollection  of  the  many 
intellectual  evenings  we  have  spent  together  in  olden 
days,  while  we  sat  smoking  (for  you  know,  James,  you 
were  ever  fond  of  a pipe),  — Speak  for  me,  aposiopesis, 
or  rather  do  not,  for  thou  art  an  unhappy  figure  and 
born  dumb  and  of  no  earthly  use  but  to  cut  the  throat 
of  a clause ! 

Write  to  me  now  and  then,  lest  I perish.  Where 
is  Tennant?  I have  not  yet  answered  him:  how  shall 
I direct  to  him?  You  inquire  after  Charles.  We  see 
little  of  him : I believe  his  spirits  are  pretty  good.  Is 
Brooks  at  Cambridge  ? To  him  I owe  a letter,  and 
I mean  to  pay  my  debt. 


Ever  thine,  A.  T. 


From  Hon . Stephen  Spring  Rice . 


Cambridge,  November  27/h,  1833. 

Dear  Alfred, 

When  I received  your  note  some  days  back  I was  at 
first  inclined  to  think  it  a pity  that  so  much  good  abuse  should 
be  thrown  away.  Such  a happy  facility  of  assertion  combined 
with  such  apparent  sincerity  in  the  expression  deserved  a better 


1 “ Domeship  ” refers  to  Spedding’s  head. 


1833] 


LETTERS  FROM  CAMBRIDGE. 


I29 


fate  than  being  uselessly  employed  on  one  so  steeled  to  abuse  as 
myself.  O king ! I hope  that  you  will  be  sufficiently  occupied 
till  the  28th  with  the  “ Morte  d’ Arthur.”  I send  Keightley’s 
Fairy  Legends  and  the  other  books,  which  it  shall  be  my  care  to 
despatch  to  you  to-morrow ; Kemble  (Anglo-Saxon  Lecturer  to 
the  University)  sends  you  to  fill  up  your  leisure  hours  a folio 

Saxo-Grammaticus to  be  jammed  into  the  bowl  of  your  pipe. 

Matters  are  going  on  here  much  as  usual.  I have  just  written 
by  Peacock’s  desire  to  Blakesley  to  tell  him  to  come  here  and  be 
a lecturer,  a summons  which  there  is  no  doubt  he  will  obey. 
Sterling  is  here  still,  and  is  to  be  at  the  yearly  dinner 1 which 
takes  place  among  “ mankind,”  and  which  will  come  to  pass 
on  Monday  next.  Spedding,  Alford,  Donne,  the  two  Farishes 
and  Pickering  are  expected ; so  much  for  eating.  I have  read 
Wilhelm  Meister  for  the  first  time,  with  which  I find  as  many 
faults  and  beauties  as  every  one  does.  What  think  you  of  that 
fy\v/cv7ri/cpov  performance  ? there  is  another  question  to  burthen 
your  soul  with  unanswered.  If  your  health  is  proposed  I shall 
oppose  it  on  the  ground  of  your  having  been  an  unworthy 
member  of  the  Society!!  I hope  that  you  will  not  be  able  to 
decipher  this  scrawl,  and  so  write  to  ask  what  it  is  about.  I 
shall  send  the  books  to-morrow;  you  ought  to  know  when  to 
send  for  them. 

Thine  ever, 

S.  E.  Spring  Rice. 


From  J,  M.  Kemble . 

Cambridge,  November,  1833. 

Dearest  Alfred, 

I write  you  a line  or  two  by  this  parcel  to  tell  you 
what  I know  is  no  news  to  you,  that  I love  you  heartily  and 
wish  you  were  with  us.  There  is  little  stirring  here  save  that  we 
all  look  with  interest  for  news  from  you ; I wish  you  could  come 
and  dine  with  the  Apostles  on  Monday  next:  I am  not  sure 


T.  1. 


1 The  “ Apostles1”  dinner. 


9 


130 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l833 

that  Donne  and  Trench  will  not  be  with  us.  We  are  all  pretty 
well,  etc.,  looking  out  for  more  sprigs  of  the  garden  (or  the 
gardener’s  daughter,  for  I suppose  she  was  not  so  imperfect  a 
woman  as  not  to  be  mother  as  well  as  maid  and  married)?  Is 
there  no  gardener’s  granddaughter  ? “ Simeon  Stylites  ” is  said 

by  the  prophane,  that  is  the  mathematicians  Spring  Rice  and 
Heath,  to  be  not  “ the  watcher  on  the  pillar  to  the  end,”  but  to 
the  uth ; and  I think  this  is  an  improvement ; the  more  so  as  it 
shows  your  universality  off,  and  marks  that  you  have  a touch  of 
mathematics  in  you : O Alfred ! could  you  only  have  made  the 
height  of  the  pillar  a geometrical  progression  ! Give  my  affec- 
tionate remembrances  to  Charles  and  Fred.  Write  to  me,  or 
what  is  better  yet,  come  to  me. 

Ever  your  most  affectionate  friend, 

J.  M.  Kemble. 


To  /.  M.  Kemble . 


My  dear  John, 


1833- 


I hope  this  will  find  you  at  Cambridge. 
J.  Heath  wrote  to  me  that  the  books  should  have  been 
returned  by  the  21st  and  I received  his  note  on  the 
2 1 st.  I know  not  what  the  fine  is,  and  as  to  applying 
for  any  information  even  on  Cambridge  subjects  to 
Cambridge  men  I hold  it  vanity.  They  are  so  smoke- 
sotted.  Shamefully  careless  was  it  to  have  let  these 
books  lie  for  three  weeks  in  Spring  Rice’s  room. 
Shameful  not  to  have  sent  the  second  volume  of 
Keightley,  and  hateful  the  purloining  of  my  album,  which 
I will  have  found.  If  the  thief  be  not  Douglas  himself, 
it  is  that  luxurious,  eye-glass-wearing,  unconscienced 
fellow  S.  Rice,  whom  — fill  up  the  chasm  as  you  choose : 
if  the  book  be  returned,  let  it  be  with  a blessing. 
Seriously  speaking  I am  disgusted.  I am  heartily  glad 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES. 


1833] 


131 


you  have  got  Beowulf  out.  Some  thoughts,  vague  ones, 
I have,  of  coming  up  to  Cambridge  and  attending  your 
lectures  next  term,  always  provided  they  be  gratis.  Good 
bye,  dear  old  Jack. 

Thine  ever, 


A.  Tennyson. 


Be  so  good  as  to  send  me  the  “ Morte  d’Arthur” 
again. 

P.S.  Perhaps  you  would  use  your  paternal  authority 
with  the  undergraduate  whom  you  may  suspect  of  being 
the  thief.  Douglas  himself  ought  not  to  pass  unreproved. 
What  a careless  set  you  are! 


From  R.  M.  Milnes . 

After  an  “ Apostles  ” dinner. 

Cambridge,  {not  dated). 

To  Alfred, 

I feel  I am  getting  cross,  and  as  I wish  to  express  in 
simple  sincerity  my  hope  that  you  will  not  long  defer  your 
promist  visit  to  me,  as  soon  as  I return  to  Yorkshire,  which  will 
be  in  about  a fortnight,  I shall  rock  myself  on  the  belief  that 
you  will  bring  or  send  me  something  comfortable. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Richard  M.  Milnes. 

P.S.  I suppose  nobody  writes  to  you  because  you  never 
write  to  nobody.  John  Heath  and  many  others  were  full  to  the 
brim  of  enquiries  after  you,  and  if  you  had  heard  the  cheer  that 
followed  the  health  of  A.  T.,  the  Poet  of  the  Apostles,  at  our 
dinner,  if  you  had  ! 


9—2 


1 32 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l833- 

Milnes  wrote  to  him  later  about  his  Memorials  of 
a tour  in  Greece  which  he  was  about  to  publish,  and 
received  the  following  answer: 


December  3 rdy  1833. 

My  dear  Milnes, 

A letter  from  you  was  like  a message  from 
the  land  of  shadows.  It  is  so  long  since  I have  looked 
upon  and  conversed  with  you,  that  I will  not  deny  but 
that  you  had  withdrawn  a little  into  the  twilight.  Yet 
you  do  me  a wrong  in  supposing  that  I have  forgotten 
you.  I shall  not  easily  forget  you,  for  you  have  that 
about  you  which  one  remembers  with  pleasure.  I am 
rejoiced  to  hear  that  you  intend  to  present  us  with  your 
Grecian  impressions.  Your  gay  and  airy  mind  must 
have  caught  as  many  colours  from  the  landskip  you 
moved  through  as  a flying  soap-bubble  — a comparison 
truly  somewhat  irreverent,  yet  I meant  it  not  as  such; 
though  I care  not  if  you  take  it  in  an  evil  sense,  for  is 
it  not  owed  to  you  for  your  three  years’  silence  to  me 
whom  you  professed  to  love  and  care  for?  And  in  the 
second  place,  for  your  expression,  “ clearing  one’s  mind 
of  Greek  thoughts  and  Greek  feelings  to  make  way  for 
something  better.”  It  is  a sad  thing  to  have  a dirty  mind 
full  of  Greek  thoughts  and  feelings.  What  an  Augean 
it  must  have  been  before  the  Greek  thoughts  got  there ! 
To  be  done  with  this  idle  banter,  I hope  that  in  your 
book  you  have  given  us  much  glowing  description  and 
little  mysticism.  I know  that  you  can  describe  richly 
and  vividly.  Give  orders  to  Moxon,  and  he  will  take 
care  that  the  volume  is  conveyed  to  me. 

Believe  me,  dear  Richard, 


Ever  thine,  A.  T. 


Wordsworth’s  opinion. 


i33 


1834] 

Spedding  writes  to  Thompson  (1834)  about  William 
Wordsworth  and  Alfred  Tennyson: 

Wordsworth’s  eyes  are  better,  but  not  well,  nor  ever  likely 
to  be.  Reading  inflames  them  and  so  does  composing.  I 
believe  it  was  a series  of  Highland  sonnets  that  brought  on  the 
last  attack,  so  much  worse  than  he  had  before.  He  read  me 
several,  that  I had  not  seen  nor  heard  before,  many  of  them 
admirably  good : also  a long,  romantic  wizard  and  fairy  poem, 
of  the  time  of  Merlin  and  king  Arthur,  very  pretty  but  not  of 
the  first  order1:  but  I should  not  have  expected  anything  so 
good  from  him  which  was  so  much  out  of  his  beat.  He  has  not 
advanced  much  in  his  knowledge  of  Alfred;  but  he  is  very 
modest  in  his  refusal  to  praise,  attributing  his  want  of  admiration 
to  a deficiency  in  himself,  whether  from  the  stiffness  of  old  age 
which  cannot  accommodate  itself  to  a new  style  of  beauty,  or 
that  the  compass  of  his  sympathies  has  been  narrowed  by 
flowing  too  long  and  strongly  in  one  direction  (N.B.  He  is  not 
answerable  for  the  English  that  I am  writing).  But  he  doubts 
not  that  Alfred’s  style  has  its  own  beauty,  though  he  wants  the 
faculty  to  enter  fully  into  it,  alleging  as  a parallel  case  the 
choruses  in  “ Samson  Agonistes,”  the  measure  of  which  he  has 
never  been  able  to  enjoy,  which  comes  to  perhaps  as  high  a 
compliment  as  a negative  compliment  can.  He  spoke  so  wisely 
and  graciously  that  I had  half  a mind  to  try  him  with  a poem  or 
two,  but  that  would  have  been  more  perhaps  than  he  meant : 
and  indeed  it  is  always  so  pleasant  to  hear  a distinguished  man 
unaffectedly  disclaiming  the  office  of  censor,  that  I think  it  fair  to 
take  him  at  his  word.  I have  given  a copy  of  Alfred’s  second 
volume  to  Hartley  Coleridge,  who,  I trust,  will  make  more  of  it. 
He  had  only  seen  it  for  a few  minutes,  and  was  greatly  behind 
the  age,  though  he  admitted  that  A.  T.  was  undoubtedly  a man 
of  genius,  and  was  going  to  say  something  sharp  about  the 
Quarterly  in  a review  of  “The  Doctor,”  which  he  was  or  is  writing 
for  Blackwood.  I also  sent  him  yesterday  a copy  of  Charles 
Tennyson,  accompanied  with  one  of  my  most  gentlemanly 
letters. 

In  June  1834  there  was  great  distress  at  Somersby 
among  the  Tennysons,  because  the  landlord  threatened 

1 u The  Egyptian  Maid,  or,  The  Romance  of  the  Water  Lily.” 


134  SOLITUDE  AND  WORK.  [l834 

to  cut  down  Enderby  Wood  and  the  Fairy  Wood  in 
Holywell,  where,  under  the  trees,  the  finest  and  earliest 
snowdrops  blow.  A hope  was  uttered  that  the  fairies 
might  haunt  the  desecrators.  The  Fairy  Wood  was 
left  unscathed ; and  my  father  completed  his  poem,  the 
“ Sleeping  Beauty  ” ; and  warmed  to  his  work  because 
there  had  been  a favourable  review  of  him  lately 
published  in  far-off  Calcutta. 

In  July  he  visited  his  friend  Heath  at  Kitlands  near 
Dorking,  and  thence  journeyed  with  him  to  Worthing. 
When  they  arrived  at  the  little  seaside  town  on  a 
beautiful  still  night,  the  sea  was  calm  and  golden,  and  there 
was  a Cuyp-like  picture  of  boys  bathing  in  the  glowing 
sunset,  and  of  gray  fishing-boats  moored  out  in  the 
distance.  Heath  tried  to  persuade  my  father  to  go  to 
Brighton,  for  he  said  “ The  town  is  worth  going  to  see, 
and  moreover  the  coast  is  very  fine,  an  infinitely  finer 
place  than  Worthing.”  But  my  father  refused,  and  in- 
sisted on  returning  to  his  work.  He  took  Kitlands  again 
by  the  way  and  had  “ lonely  walks  in  dark  valleys,”  and 
by  the  side  of  the  streams  which  rise  in  Leith  Hill. 
In  his  note-book  on  one  page  there  is  a map  of  Kitlands 
and  of  the  surrounding  country : on  another  there  is 
an  unpublished  fragment  on  mine  host  of  an  ancient 
hostelry ! 


Mine  Host . ( Unpublished .) 

Yon  huddled  cloud  his  motion  shifts, 
Where,  by  the  tavern  in  the  dale, 
The  thirsty  horseman,  nodding,  lifts 
The  creaming  horn  of  corny  ale ! 

This  tavern  is  their  chief  resort, 

For  he,  whose  cellar  is  his  pride, 
Gives  stouter  ale  and  riper  port 
Than  any  in  the  country-side. 


1834] 


VISIT  TO  KITLANDS. 


135 


Mine  host  is  fat,  and  gray,  and  wise, 

He  strokes  his  beard  before  he  speaks; 

And  when  he  laughs,  his  little  eyes 
Are  swallow’d  in  his  pamper’d  cheeks. 

He  brims  his  beaker  to  the  top, 

With  jokes  you  never  heard  before, 

And  sometimes  with  a twinkling  drop, 

“To  those  who  will  not  taste  it  more!” 

The  following  letter  reached  him  at  Kitlands  from 
his  sister  Emily: 

Somersby  Rectory,  July  12th,  1834. 

My  dearest  Alfred, 

I certainly  intend  to  go  to  Monlsey 1.  Would  to  God 
I could  begin  the  journey  immediately  but  it  is  not  in  my  power. 
You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  I have  been  considerably  worse 

in  health  since  your  departure And  once  or  twice  indeed  I 

thought  that  the  chilly  hand  of  death  was  upon  me  : however  I 
still  exist,  tho’  reduced  again  to  a great  state  of  weakness.  If 
possible  I will  journey  southward  soon.  You  know,  Alfred, 
the  great  desire  I have  to  become  acquainted  with  the  Hallam 
family,  particularly  with  Ellen  ; she  will  perhaps  be  the  friend  to 
remove  in  some  degree  the  horrible  feeling  of  desolation  which 
is  ever  at  my  heart.  I can  no  longer  continue  in  this  deepening 
grave  of  tears... depend  upon  it  I will  do  all  in  my  power  to  go 
to  Moulsey.  What  is  life  to  me  ! if  I die  (which  the  Tennysons 
never  do)  the  effort  shall  be  made.  The  deep  unaffected  kind- 
ness of  the  Hallams  made  us  all  weep... How  long  do  you  think 
of  remaining  at  Kitlands  ? It  would  be  pleasant  to  come  while 
you  are  there.  This  however  will  scarcely  be  the  case  consider- 
ing my  journey  will  commence  in  about  three  weeks’  time,  if  by 
any  means  I can  conjure  up  resolution.. ..Remember  us  all  to 
“ our  Mr  Heath  ” and  his  brother,  and  cannot  you  intimate  to 
the  sister  how  sorry  we  were  not  to  have  been  able  to  avail 
ourselves,  that  is  Mary  and  myself,  of  her  kind  invitation  ? Take 

1 The  Hallams1  house  at  the  time. 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


136 


[1834 


care  of  thyself  that  thou  mayest  return  with  new  health  and 
spirits  is  the  ardent  wish  of 

Thy  very  affectionate  sister,  Emily  Tennyson. 

His  mother  wrote  him  a letter  at  the  same  time: 

What  kind  hearts  the  Hallams  have ! I hope  poor  Emily 
will  be  able  to  go  to  Moulsey.  The  pony  got  out  of  the  stables 
and  she  went  with  one  of  the  servants  to  catch  it  (as  Harrison 
had  gone  to  Horncastle),  which  made  her  very  ill  for  some  hours, 
but  she  is  now  as  well  as  usual.  I wish  I could  have  induced 
her  to  begin  her  journey  immediately,  but  she  fancies  she  has 
something  still  to  do  before  she  can  set  out.  The  great  lassitude 
she  feels  makes  her  fear  she  is  unequal  for  such  an  exertion.  I 
should  have  liked  her  so  much  to  be  introduced  to  the  Hallams 
by  you ; she  also  considers  this  as  very  desirable.  Charles  is 
busy  at  present  with  his  flock  whom  he  is  catechising,  but  I 
hope  he  will  be  able  to  travel  with  her  in  three  weeks’  time. 
I have  found  the  books  which  Mr  Heath  mentions.  Shall  I 
send  them  by  Mr  Spedding  ? I have  not  heard  whether  or  no 

he  is  at  Tealby.  I hope  we  shall  see  him Should  you  hear 

of  anything  likely  to  suit  Arthur  let  me  know.  Remember  me 
to  all  your  friends. 

His  sister  Mary  adds  a line  entreating  him 

to  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  any  music  that  may  be  sung, 
whether  by  way  of  chants,  hymns,  or  songs,  and  to  ascertain 
if  Miss  Heath  will  give  the  name  of  one  or  two  that  most 
affect  his  musical  organs. 

She  goes  on : 

We  were  rather  surprised  to  hear  that  the  quaint  creature 
Fred  has  set  off  to  quaff  companionless  a “ beaker  full  of  the 
warm  South,”  but  I suppose  a hot  sun,  south  wind  and  cloudless 
sky  (which  constitute  a humming  day)  and  all  of  which  are  my 
aversion  are  all  the  world  to  him.  And  now  I must  bid  thee 
adieu,  hoping  to  see  thee  return  as  blithe  as  blithe  can  be. 
Remember  me  kindly  to  all  at  Kitlands. 

When  my  father  returned  to  Somersby,  he  had  not 
only  Emily  to  comfort,  but  also  his  friend  Tennant, 


POWER  OF  SYMPATHY. 


1834] 


137 


who  consulted  him  about  a great  sorrow  which  had 
befallen  him  and  craved  for  sympathy. 


From  R.  J.  Tennant  ( after  a visit  to  Somersby ). 

London  University,  August  4th,  1834. 


My  dear  Alfred, 

I cannot  delay  writing  to  you,  and  cannot  express  my 
earnest  gratitude  for  your  friendship. ...The  sight  of  Somersby, 
and  your  kindness  have  overcome  the  hard-hearted  stubbornness 
that  shut  up  all  my  feelings.  Forgotten  friendships  have  been 
revived,  and  correspondences  been  renewed  that  had  long  since 
dropped,  and  home  feelings  aroused  that  had  slept  a long  sleep. 
...Your  very  kind  letter  serves  me  every  day  instead  of  a 
companion ; the  only  way  in  which  it  is  in  my  power  to  show 
gratitude  for  the  repeated  and  continued  kindness  I receive  from 
you,  is  by  following  your  counsel  as  far  as  I am  able,  and  keep- 
ing my  own  mind  in  peace. 

****** 

Ever  your  affectionate  R.  J.  Tennant. 

What  strikes  me  much  in  this  early  life  of  my  father 
is  not  only  his  wide  power  of  sympathy,  but  also  his 
practical  good  sense,  shown  especially  in  the  manage- 
ment of  home  and  of  family.  For  example,  now  that 
he  knew  Tennant  wanted  an  interest  in  life,  and  was 
a good  scholar,  and  that  his  brother  Horatio  never 
looked  at  a book  (his  time  at  Louth  School  being  over), 
it  occurred  to  him  that  Horatio  might  be  placed  at 
Blackheath  under  the  care  of  Tennant,  then  a master 
in  Blackheath  School.  The  proposition  was  put  before 
Tennant,  with  a plain  statement,  that,  although  Horatio 
had  more  than  average  power,  he  had  grown  rusty  and  his 
acquirements  were  less  than  they  ought  to  be  at  his  age. 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


138 


[l834 


If  he  went  from  the  lonely  haunts  of  Somersby  to 
Blackheath,  it  was  hoped  that  it  might  be  “ of  advantage 
to  him,  for  he  would  see  men  and  he  never  seemed  to 
care  much  about  boys ; but  his  observations  upon  the 
men  he  had  seen  had  been  very  just  and  penetrating.” 
So  off  to  Blackheath  by  my  father’s  decision  Horatio 
accordingly  went. 

The  elder  brother  Frederick  was  just  then  in  the 
midst  of  music  at  Milan.  He  wrote  a few  lines  urging 
my  father  to  publish  in  the  spring.  But  he  would  not  and 
could  not;  his  health  since  Hallam’s  death  had  been 
“variable,  and  his  spirits  indifferent.”  The  chief  change 
my  father  had  from  the  monotony  of  Somersby  life  was 
to  drive  over  to  Charles  at  Tealby,  “for  Lincolnshire, 
a beautiful  village.”  Their  grandfather  George  Tennyson, 
who  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  his  approaching  end, 
had  left  the  Tennyson  estate  of  Bayons  Manor  and 
migrated  to  a small  house  on  a sandy  moor,  because 
his  son  Charles  Tennyson  d’Eyncourt  pressed  to  be  in- 
stalled in  the  squiredom.  “ One  would  have  supposed  that 
such  a thing,”  said  Frederick,  “would  have  been  sufficient 
to  shake  the  last  sands  out  of  his  glass.”  However  he 
lived  on  his  moor  comfortably  and  peaceably : and  there 
died  in  1835. 

As  for  his  private  occupations,  my  father  was 
still  reading  his  Racine,  Moliere,  and  Victor  Hugo 
among  other  foreign  literature  ; and  had  also  dipped  into 
Maurice’s  work  Eustace  Conway , which  appears  to  have 
been  in  great  disfavour,  and  into  Arthur  Coningsby  by 
John  Sterling,  “a  dreary  book”;  “ ’Tis  a pretty  piece  of 
work,  would  ’twere  done ! ” wrote  one  of  the  friends.  In 
October  1834,  he  told  Tennant  he  was  busy  copying  out 
his  “ Morte  d’Arthur  ” ; then  he  posted  Spedding  some 
of  the  new  poems  for  his  opinion  and  Spedding  replied  as 
follows : 


1834] 


SPEDDINGS  CRITICISMS. 


139 


Mire  House,  Keswick,  September  19th,  1834. 

My  dear  Alfred, 

Such  as  it  is,  this  letter  will  I expect  come  to  you  in 
an  independent  character,  by  the  good  aid  of  Philip  van  Artevelde 
(Henry  Taylor),  to  whom  I have  a decent  excuse  for  writing. 
I received  by  Douglas  and  John  Heath  divers  of  your  composi- 
tions, albeit  too  few  for  my  appetite : to  wit,  “ Sir  Galahad,”  which 
enjoys  my  unlimited  admiration.  The  virgin  knight  is  as  beautiful 
a spirit  as  Don  Quixote  in  a more  beautiful  kind,  if  that  could 
be.  Also  “ Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies,”  one  of  those  pieces 
which  nobody  except  yourself  can  write,  and  I think  the  most 
exquisite  of  an  exquisite  race.  Of  the  rest  I cannot  find  words 
to  express  what  and  how  great  is  the  glory.  I have  also  the 
alterations  of  “ Oh  that  ’twere  possible,”  improvements  I must 
admit,  tho’  I own  I did  not  think  that  could  have  been:  “Along 
this  glimmering  corridor”  I had  seen  before,  tho’  not  as  it  stands 
now : and 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly,  slowly  glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides  — 1 

It  is  perfectly  true;  how  on  earth  did  you  find  it  out? 
Last  and  greatest  (tho’  not  most  perfect  in  its  kind)  I have  re- 
ceived “The  Thoughts  of  a Suicide2”;  the  design  is  so  grand, 
and  the  moral,  if  there  is  one,  so  important  that  I trust  you  will 
not  spare  any  elaboration  of  execution.  At  all  events  let  me  have 
the  rest  of  it  and  I will  tell  you  at  large  what  I think ; also  as 
many  more  as  you  can  supply ; remembering  that  double  letters 
or  parcels  will  not  distress  my  circumstances.  Since  I saw  you, 
I have  been  cultivating  my  body  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  my 
soul,  which  some  say  is  the  better  part.  I have  rolled  great 
stones  down  mountains,  but  stirred  no  hidden  principle  of 
thought  or  deed.  I have  not  done  anything  good ; nor  said  any 
good  thing.  I have  written  no  prose  and  small  verse.  Perhaps 
I was  too  ambitious,  for  I endeavoured  at  nothing  lower  than 
Milton’s  high-learned  manner.  I sent  the  small  effort  to 

1 “ Requiescat.”  2 “The  Two  Voices.” 


140  SOLITUDE  AND  WORK.  [l834 

Tennant,  but  that  is  no  reason  I should  not  send  it  to  you,  who 
will  laugh  at  it  less  and  understand  it  more.  After  all  it  is  but 
a fragment  of  a simile  ! 

Liker  that  far  significant  coach  that  bears 
The  windy  artist  from  his  central  tower 
Whither  the  stars  come  clustering  to  suggest 
The  universal  secret,  she  far  off 
Swims  on  Macadam,  etc.  etc. 

The  “far  significant  coach”  is  the  Cambridge  Telegraph, 
exquisitely  described  by  its  property  of  conveying  Professor  Airy 
from  the  Observatory. 

I have  not  forgotten  my  promise  to  write  to  Charles,  but  alas 
how  many  things  are  sincerely  promised  which  are  nevertheless 
not  faithfully  performed. 

Ever  thine,  James  Spedding. 

To  James  Spedding . 

1834. 

My  dear  James, 

It  may  be  you  have  waited  some  time  for 
a reply,  but  you  haven’t  waited,  so  say  no  more.  I 
have  been  out  or  you  should  have  heard  from  me  before 
this,  so,  I pray  you,  make  not  any  little  lapse  of  time 
that  may  possibly  have  slicled  away  into  the  unrecoverable 
between  the  writing  of  your  letter  and  the  receipt  of 
mine  precedent  for  further  delay  in  answering  this,  for 
your  letters  do  my  moral  and  intellectual  man  much 
good.  I am  going  to  town  with  Emily  to-morrow  and 
I expect  a token  from  you  on  my  return.  You  ask  me 
what  I have  been  doing:  I have  written  several  things 
since  I saw  you,  some  emulative  of  the  “ rjSit  teal  fipaxv 
Kal  p,eya\onpenes 1 ” of  Alcaeus,  others  of  the  “ iKXoyrj  tcov 
ovopLOLToiv  Kal  rrjs  crvvOeo-ecos  aKplfieta  ” of  Simonides,  one 
or  two  epical,  but  you  can  scarcely  expect  me  to  write 

1 Dion.  Hal.  v.  421. 


LETTER  ABOUT  THE  NEW  POEMS. 


1834] 


141 


them  out  for  you:  for  I can  scarcely  bring  myself  to  write 
them  out  for  myself,  and  do  you  think  I love  you  better 
than  myself?  I had  thought  your  Paley  had  taught 
you  better.  By  a quaint  coincidence  I received  your 
letter,  directed  (I  suppose)  by  Philip  van  Artevelde, 
with  Philip  himself  (not  the  man  but  the  book),  and  I 
wish  to  tell  you  that  I think  him  a noble  fellow ; I close 
with  him  in  most  that  he  says  of  modern  poetry,  tho’ 
it  may  be  that  he  does  not  take  sufficiently  into  con- 
sideration the  peculiar  strength  evolved  by  such  writers 
as  Byron  and  Shelley,  who,  however  mistaken  they 
may  be,  did  yet  give  the  world  another  heart  and  new 
pulses,  and  so  are  we  kept  going.  Blessed  be  those 
that  grease  the  wheels  of  the  old  world,  insomuch  as 
to  move  on  is  better  than  to  stand  still.  But  “ Philip  is 
a famous  man”  and  makes  me  shamed  of  my  own  faults. 
A propos  of  faults  I have  corrected  much  of  my  last 
volume,  and  if  you  will  send  me  your  copy  I would  insert 
my  corrections.  Heaven  knows  what  Douglas  brought 
you:  as  for  some  stanzas  about  a “ Corridor I know 
not  whether  there  be  such  a poem ; if  there  be  it  is  very 
evident  you  have  it  not  rightly. 

I think  on  second  thoughts  tho’  much  against  my 
will  I will  write  thee  out  a poem,  partly  because  Charles 
likes  it,  partly  to  give  a local  habitation  on  this  paper 
and  in  your  brain-piece  to  what  else  flies  loosely  thro’ 
the  wind  of  my  own  memory  like  a Sibyl’s  leaf.  Voila! 
be  merciful. 


{Here  is  copied  out ) 

Love  thou  thy  land  with  love  far  brought 
etc. 

It  is  said  one  cannot  make  a silken  purse  out  of 
a sow’s  ear,  yet  have  you  made  a Miltonian  out  of  the 
Telegraph.  “ Cynthius  aurem  vellit  ” : your  far  significant 

1 See  page  146,  “The  Little  Maid.” 


142 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l834- 

coach  drew  the  purse  of  my  mouth  like  a sow’s  ear,  it 
was  not  the  wrong  sow’s  ear  to  lay  hold  on,  for  I grinned. 
Kemble  would  have  said  “ screamed  ” but  I never  scream, 
I leave  that  to  your  vivid  men.  I dare  say  you  are 
right  about  the  stanza  in  “ Sir  Galahad,”  who  was 
intended  for  something  of  a male  counterpart  to  St 
Agnes.  I cannot  write  the  “Suicide1”  for  you,  ’tis  too 
long,  nor  “ Morte  d’Arthur,”  which  I myself  think  the 
best  thing  I have  managed  lately,  for  ’tis  likewise  too 
long;  nor  can  I write  any  more  at  present,  for  it  is 
much  too  late. 

Angels  guard  thee,  dear  Jimmy, 

Ever  thine,  A.  T. 

P.S.  Fragment  on  British  Freedom . 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 

And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown: 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth, 

The  wisdom  of  a thousand  years 
Is  in  them.  May  perpetual  youth 
Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ! 

1835- 

From  J.  M.  Heath  ( the  first  mention  of  “ In  Memoriam  ”). 
My  dear  Alfred, 

I sent  Julia,  on  hearing  her  fears,  a copy  of  your  two 
companions  to  “ Fair  Ship  2 ” which  have  been  a great  delight  to 
her,  and  she  seems  to  have  communicated  them  to  some  others. 
“The  Xmas2”  is  indeed  most  beautiful,  most  touching,  and  the 

1 “ Two  Voices.” 

2 The  sections  of  “In  Memoriam”  which  were  first  written  ; see  page  109. 


1835]  HEATH  WRITES  OF  “ IN  MEMORIAM.”  1 43 

latter  portions  of  the  “Fair  Ship”  speak  to  our  hearts  indeed. 
That  last  verse,  is  it  not  the  expression  of  each  voiceless  thought? 
But  the  enjoyment  of  these  will  sink  deeper  yet.  I seem  some- 
times as  if  I could  not  take  in  more  than  one  thought  at  a time, 
I mean  such  thoughts  as  the  mind  loves  to  dwell  on,  and  feed 
upon  as  it  were,  etc.  etc.  etc.  I am  doubtful  how  far  I am 
justified  in  having  sent  you  this,  but  I could  not  resist.  There 
are  many  more  people  that  take  an  interest  in  you  than  you  are 
aware  of.  Your  letter  was  balm  to  me,  send  me  more  such.  I 
hope  we  shall  see  you  in  the  summer. 

Your  very  affectionate  friend, 

J.  M.  Heath. 

P.S.  Thompson  cometh,  Spedding  then,  and  if  you  ask 
what  doeth  the  Spedding,  why  marry  it  is  this.  He  bade  me 
say  in  answer  to  all  such  enquiries  that  he,  the  said  Spedding, 
was  now  waiting  till  he  should  grow  wiser. 


To  James  Spedding. 

Somersby  Rectory, 

Feb.  i$th,  1835.  Midnight. 

My  dear  James, 

I shall  never  more  have  such  respect  for 
the  lymphatic  temperament.  A promise  has  been  broken 
by  you,  a promise  generated  betwixt  two  cigars  at 
Gliddon’s,  corroborated  in  Holborn,  and  repeated  in  the 
archway  of  the  Ball  and  Crown.  I did  write  to  you  and 
you  have  thought  me  “ worthy  of  sacred  silence,”  but  let 
that  pass.  I have  heard  much  of  your  wisdom  from 
Thompson  and  others,  and  I confess  that,  despite  of  your 
transgression,  I have  an  inclination  to  come  and  see  you, 
and  if  possible  to  bring  you  back  with  me  here.  Can  I 
hear  that  men  are  wise  and  not  look  them  in  the  face  ? 
I will  come  to  you  as  Sheba  came  to  Solomon. 


144 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l835 


She  travell’d  far  from  Indian  streams, 

And  he  a royal  welcome  made 
In  ample  chambers  overlaid 
With  Lebanonian  cedar-beams. 

I forget  where  I read  this,  and  I do  not  know 
whether  I shall  have  a royal  welcome ; wherefore  be  no 
more  lymphatic  but  answer  me,  for  I have  sold  my 
medal1,  and  made  money,  and  would  visit  you,  and 
if  you  answer  me  not  I shall — . 

Very  affectionately  thine 

As  thou  usest  me,  A.  Tennyson. 


To  James  Spedding . 

[ Undated .] 

My  dear  James, 

I am  sorry  to  disappoint  myself  (and  perhaps 
in  some  slight  measure  you  also)  by  postponing  my  visit. 
I am  going  to  be  from  home  for  some  time  but  not 
anywhere  in  your  direction.  The  birds  must  sing  and 
the  furze  bloom  for  you  and  Fitzgerald  alone,  “ par  nobile 
fratrum.”  I sincerely  hope  you  have  not  put  off  any 
one  else  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  me : tho’  I did  not 
state  as  much  in  my  note,  it  was  only  when  I first 
proposed  it  that  I could  have  come  to  you.  Fortune 
will  perhaps  bring  me  whiter  days. 

I know  not  whether  you  are  aware  that  Charles  has 
become  an  independent  gentleman,  living  in  a big  house 
among  chalky  wolds  at  Caistor.  His  and  my  great 
uncle,  Sam  Turner,  to  whom  he  was  heir,  died  some 
little  time  ago  and  left  him  property,  but  he  complains 

1 This,  the  Chancellor’s  Medal  for  “ Timbuctoo,”  was  given  back  to  him 
by  his  cousin  Lewis  Fytche  in  1885. 


DISLIKE  OF  PREMATURE  NOTICE. 


1835] 


145 


that  it  is  at  present  unavailable,  talks  of  debts  to  be 
paid  etc.  etc. 

John  Heath  writes  me  word  that  Mill  is  going 
to  review  me  in  a new  Magazine,  to  be  called  the 
London  Review , and  favourably ; but  it  is  the  last  thing 
I wish  for,  and  I would  that  you  or  some  other  who 
may  be  friends  of  Mill  would  hint  as  much  to  him. 
I do  not  wish  to  be  dragged  forward  agam  in  any  shape 
before  the  reading  public  at  present , particularly  on  the 
score  of  my  old  poems,  most  of  which  I have  so  cor- 
rected (particularly  “ CEnone  ”)  as  to  make  them  much 
less  imperfect,  which  you  who  are  a wise  man  would 
own  if  you  had  the  corrections.  I may  very  possibly 
send  you  these  some  time. 

I am  in  much  haste  and  obliged  to  conclude,  but 
absent  or  present, 

Believe  me 

Ever  your  true  friend  and  admirer,  A.  T. 


Unpublished  Poems  of  this  Period  (about  1834). 

Whispers. 

’Tis  not  alone  the  warbling  woods, 

The  starr’d  abysses  of  the  sky, 

The  silent  hills,  the  stormy  floods, 

The  green  that  fills  the  eye  — 

These  only  do  not  move  the  breast; 

Like  some  wise  artist,  Nature  gives, 

Thro’  all  her  works,  to  each  that  lives 
A hint  of  somewhat  unexprest. 

Whate’er  I see,  where’er  I move, 

These  whispers  rise,  and  fall  away, 
Something  of  pain  — of  bliss  — of  Love, 

But  what,  were  hard  to  say. 


T.  I. 


10 


146 


SOLITUDE  AND  WORK. 


[l835 


The  Little  Maid. 

Along  this  glimmering  gallery 
A child  she  loved  to  play ; 

This  chamber  she  was  born  in  ! See, 
The  cradle  where  she  lay ! 

That  little  garden  was  her  pride, 

With  yellow  groundsel  grown ! 
Those  holly-thickets  only  hide 
Her  grave  — a simple  stone ! 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 

From  a Sketch  by  J.  Spedding , made  at  Mirehouse , April , 1 835 


CHAPTER  VI. 

VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE. 
THE  “MORTE  D’ARTHUR.” 

I836-37- 


To  a friend , Mrs  Neville , who  had  lately  lost  her  husband  (written 
between  1830  and  1840,  unpublished). 


W oman  of  noble  form  and  noble  mind ! 

Whithersoever  thro’  the  wilderness 

Thou  bearest  from  the  threshold  of  thy  friends 

The  sacred  sorrows  of  as  pure  a heart 

As  e’er  beat  time  to  Nature,  take  with  thee 

Our  warmest  wishes,  silent  Guardians 

But  true  till  Death;  and  let  them  go  in  hope, 

Like  birds  of  passage,  to  return  with  thee 
Some  happy  Summer  morning,  when  the  winds 
Are  fallen  or  changed ; and,  water’d  by  thy  tears, 
The  two  fair  lilies  growing  at  thy  side 
Have  slowly  prosper’d  into  stately  flowers. 

The  only  Tennyson  who,  in  spite  of  their  grand- 
father’s wish  “to  make  all  the  brothers  parsons1,” 

1 Alluded  to  in  a letter  from  Frederick  Tennyson  to  John  Frere,  April  18th, 
1832.  “After  this  long  sit  however  I ought  certainly  to  have  some  inter- 
esting passages  to  tongue.  The  foremost  that  presents  itself  is  a crotchet 


147 


10 — 2 


148  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l836 

became  a clergyman,  was  my  uncle  Charles.  He  had 
been  ordained  in  1835,  and  appointed  to  the  curacy  of 
Tealby,  the  village  adjoining  Bayons  Manor.  On  May 
24th,  1836,  he  married  Louisa  Sellwood,  my  mother’s 
youngest  sister. 

My  mother  as  a bridesmaid  was  taken  into  church 
by  my  father.  They  had  rarely  been  in  each  other’s 
company  since  their  first  meeting  in  1830,  when  the 
Sellwoods  had  driven  over  one  spring  day  from  Horn- 
castle,  to  call  at  Somersby  Rectory.  Arthur  Hallam 
was  then  staying  with  the  Tennysons ; and  asked  Emily 
Sellwood  to  walk  with  him  in  the  Fairy  Wood.  At 
a turn  of  the  path  they  came  upon  my  father,  who,  at 
sight  of  the  slender,  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen  in  her 
simple  gray  dress,  moving  “like  a light  across  those 
woodland  ways,”  suddenly  said  to  her : “ Are  you  a 
Dryad  or  an  Oread  wandering  here?”  Now,  as  a 
bridesmaid,  she  seemed  to  him  even  lovelier: 

“ O happy  bridesmaid,  make  a happy  bride ! ” 

And  all  at  once  a pleasant  truth  I learn’d, 

For,  while  the  tender  service  made  thee  weep, 

I loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst  not  hide, 
And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the  press  return’d. 

My  uncle  Arthur  says : “ It  was  then  I first  saw  your 
mother,  and  she  read  to  me  Milton’s  ‘ Comus,’  which  I 
had  not  known  before  and  which  I have  loved  ever 
since.” 

My  uncle  Charles  and  his  bride  left  for  their  honey- 
moon on  the  Rhine,  a tour  which  was  alluded  to  in 
“In  Memoriam,”  section  xcvin. : 

of  my  grandfather’s,  that  we  are  all  to  take  orders,  myself  especially,  which 
puts  me  into  a demisemijoram  and  causes  me  to  lose  time.  In  order  to  fill 
up  this  note  I must  add  that  I expect  to  be  ordained  in  June,  without  much 
reason,  for  hitherto  I have  made  no  kind  of  preparation,  and  a pretty  parson 
I shall  make  I’m  thinking...” 


149 


1837]  SOMERSBY  LEFT  FOR  EPPING  FOREST. 

You  leave  us:  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 

And  those  fair  hills  I sail’d  below, 

When  I was  there  with  him ; and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 

That  City. 

To  that  city  my  father  would  never  go,  and  he  gave 
me  a most  emphatic  “ no  ” when  I once  proposed  a tour 
there  with  him. 

Under  the  will  of  Sam  Turner  of  Caistor,  my  uncle 
assumed  the  name  of  Turner,  settling  with  his  wife  at 
the  vicarage  of  Grasby  near  Caistor. 

The  painful  parting  from  Somersby  took  place  in 
1837.  The  patron,  Mr  Burton,  and  the  Incumbent  had 
allowed  the  Tennysons  to  continue  in  the  Rectory  thus 
long.  My  grandmother  had  understood  that  her  father-in- 
law  would  leave  her  the  estate  of  Usselby,  not  far  from  the 
old  home;  but  this  was  not  to  be.  Not  that  my  grand- 
mother was  destitute ; she  had  her  jointure ; and  my 
uncle  Frederick  had  been  left  a property  at  Grimsby, 
and  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  had  their  small  “ portions.” 
Under  these  circumstances  the  family  decided  that  it  was 
best  for  them  to  leave  the  county  and  live  nearer  London. 
My  uncle  Frederick  was  in  Corfu,  and  remained  there  as 
long  as  his  cousin  George  d’Eyncourt,  who  was  secretary 
to  Lord  Nugent1,  kept  his  appointment.  Afterwards  he 
went  to  Italy  and  lived  near  Florence  on  the  Fiesole 
Road,  in  a villa  planned  by  Michael  Angelo.  There,  so 
report  ran,  “in  a large  hall,  Frederick  Tennyson  (who 
was  a great  lover  of  music)  used  to  sit  in  the  midst  of 
his  forty  fiddlers.”  Thus,  his  two  elder  brothers  being 
away,  on  my  father  devolved  the  care  of  the  family  and 


1 High  Commissioner  of  the  Ionian  Islands. 


150  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [1837 

of  choosing  a new  home.  The  task  was  by  no  means 
easy.  The  mother  “ ruled  by  right  of  love,”  but  knew 
nothing  of  the  world.  First  of  all  a career  had  to  be 
found  for  Horatio,  the  youngest  brother,  who  wanted  to 
be  a soldier.  The  mother  would  not  hear  of  this,  and 
he  was  sent  off  to  try  his  fortune  in  Tasmania.  High 
Beech  in  Epping  Forest  was  the  home  eventually 
selected;  and  there  the  Tennysons  lived  till  1840,  when 
they  went  to  Tunbridge  Wells.  Thence  they  moved  in 
1841  to  Boxley  near  Maidstone. 

Mrs  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall’s  wife)  once  said  to  me: 

I have  known  three  great  poets,  Wordsworth,  Browning 
and  your  father,  and  when  they  chose  they  could  be  more 
prosaic  and  practical  than  anybody  on  earth. 

My  father  certainly  proved  his  practical  turn  at  this 
time  in  furnishing  High  Beech,  for  they  say  that  he  “ did 
not  even  forget  the  kitchen  utensils:  and  that  throughout 
the  furniture  was  pretty  and  inexpensive.”  The  house 
and  park  were  pleasant  enough.  There  was  a pond 
in  the  park  on  which  in  winter  my  father  might  be  seen 
skating,  sailing  about  on  the  ice  in  his  long  blue  cloak. 

He  liked  the  nearness  of  London,  whither  he  resorted 
to  see  his  friends  Spedding,  Fitzgerald,  Heath,  Kemble, 
Tennant  and  others:  but  he  writes  that  he  could  not 
often  stay  in  town  even  for  a night,  his  mother  being  in 
such  a nervous  state  that  he  did  not  like  to  leave  her. 
“ The  light  of  London  flaring  like  a dreary  dawn  ” was 
an  especial  admiration  of  his,  during  the  evening  journeys 
between  London  and  High  Beech.  When  he  could 
leave  home  he  would  often  visit  in  Lincolnshire,  and  stay 
both  at  his  brother’s  vicarage  and  at  the  Sellwoods’  in 
Horncastle.  My  mother  and  he  were  then  quasi- 
engaged  but  were  not  able  to  marry  owing  to  want  of 
funds.  They  were  not  married  until  1850,  when  his 
poems  brought  him  a competency. 


1835]  MY  FATHER’S  OPINION  OF  WORDSWORTH.  1 5 1 

The  study  at  High  Beech,  where  he  worked  at  his 
1842  volume,  was  not  the  top  attic,  according  to  his 
usual  preference,  but  a large  room  over  the  dining- 
room, with  a bay  window,  red  curtains,  and  a Clytie  on  a 
pedestal  in  the  corner. 

The  “faithful  Fitz1”  writes  that  as  early  as  1835, 
when  he  met  my  father  in  the  Lake  Country,  at  the 
Speddings’  (Mirehouse,  by  Bassenthwaite  Lake),  he  saw 
what  was  to  be  part  of  this  1842  volume,  the  “ Morte 
d’Arthur,”  “ The  Day-Dream,”  “ The  Lord  of  Burleigh,” 
“ Dora,”  and  “ The  Gardener’s  Daughter.”  They  were 
read  out  of  a MS  “in  a little  red  book  to  him  and 
Spedding  of  a night,  ‘when  all  the  house  was  mute.’” 
Fitzgerald  continues : 

Spedding’s  father  and  mother  were  both  alive ; and  his 
father,  who  was  of  a practical  turn,  and  had  seen  enough  of  poets 
in  Shelley  and  Coleridge  (perhaps  in  Wordsworth  also),  whom 
he  remembered  about  the  Lakes,  rather  resented  our  making  so 
serious  a business  of  verse-making,  though  he  was  so  wise  and 
charitable  as  to  tolerate  everything  and  everybody,  except 
poetry  and  poets.  He  was  jealous  of  his  son  James  applying 
his  great  talents,  which  might  have  been  turned  to  public 
and  practical  use,  to  such  nonsense. 

My  father  read  them  a great  deal  of  Wordsworth, 
“the  dear  old  fellow,”  as  he  called  him.  “The  Yews 
of  Borrowdale,”  “ The  Simplon  Pass,”  the  sonnet  be- 
ginning “ Two  Voices,”  “ The  Solitary  Reaper,”  “ Peele 
Castle,”  the  “ Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality,” 
“ The  Fountain,”  were  among  his  favourites.  Fitzgerald 
notes  again : 

I remember  A.  T.  saying  he  remembered  the  time  when 
he  could  see  nothing  in  “ Michael  ” which  he  now  read  us 
in  admiration ; though  he  thought  Wordsworth  often  clumsy 

1 Edward  Fitzgerald. 


152  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l835> 

and  diffuse.  There  was  no  end  of  “This  Thorn”  in  the  piece 
that  bears  the  name : “ such  hammering  to  set  a scene  for  so 
small  a drama.” 

My  father  also  read  Keats  and  Milton : saying  that 
“ Lycidas  ” was  “ a test  of  any  reader’s  poetic  instinct,” 
and  that  “ Keats,  with  his  high  spiritual  vision,  would 
have  been,  if  he  had  lived,  the  greatest  of  us  all  (tho’  his 
blank  verse  was  poor),  and  that  there  is  something  magic 
and  of  the  innermost  soul  of  poetry  in  almost  everything 
which  he  wrote.”  Then,  perhaps  in  his  weaker  moments, 
he  used  to  think  Shakespeare  greater  in  his  sonnets  than 
in  his  plays.  “ But  he  soon  returned  to  the  thought  which 
is  indeed  the  thought  of  all  the  world.  He  would  have 
seemed  to  me  to  be  reverting  for  a moment  to  the  great 
sorrow  of  his  own  mind ; and  in  that  peculiar  phase  of 
mind  he  found  the  sonnets  a deeper  expression  of  the 
never-to-be-forgotten  love  which  he  felt,  more  than  any 
of  the  many  moods  of  many  minds  which  appear  among 
Shakespeare’s  dramas  V’ 

The  three  friends  went  to  Ambleside  together,  but 
Spedding  was  obliged  to  leave  Fitzgerald  and  my  father 
there,  and  go  home  on  business.  Fitzgerald  says : 

Alfred  Tennyson  staid  with  me  at  Ambleside.  I will  say  no 
more  than  that  the  more  I see  of  him,  the  more  cause  I have  to 
think  him  great.  His  little  humours  and  grumpinesses  were  so 
droll  that  I was  always  laughing.  I must,  however,  say  further,, 
that  I felt  what  Charles  Lamb  describes,  a sense  of  depression 
at  times  from  the  overshadowing  of  a so  much  more  lofty 
intellect  than  my  own. 

He  adds  a note  about  a row  on  Windermere  with 
my  father : 

Resting  on  our  oars  one  calm  day  on  Windermere,  whither 
we  had  gone  for  a week  from  dear  Spedding’s  (Mirehouse),  at  the 


1 Jowett. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON 
From  a Sketch  by  Edward  Fitzgerald,  made  at 
Mirehouse , 1835 


1835] 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 


153 


end  of  May  1835,  resting  on  our  oars,  and  looking  into  the  lake 
quite  unruffled  and  clear,  Alfred  quoted  from  the  lines  he  had 
lately  read  us  from  the  MS  of  “ Morte  d’ Arthur  ” about  the  lonely 
lady  of  the  lake  and  Excalibur  — 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills. 

“ Not  bad  that,  Fitz,  is  it 1 ? ” 

This  kind  of  remark  he  would  make  when  reading 
his  own  or  others’  poetry  when  he  came  to  lines  that 
he  particularly  admired,  from  no  vanity  but  from  a pure 
feeling  of  artistic  pleasure.  “ The  Lord  of  Burleigh  ” 
was  also  read  from  MS  and  Fitz  writes : “ I remember 
the  author  doubting  if  it  were  not  too  familiar,  with  its 

‘ Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses,’ 

etc.  for  public  taste.  ‘ But  a sister,’  A.  T.  said,  ‘ had 
liked  it  ’ ; we  never  got  it  out  of  our  heads  from  the 
first  hearing;  and  now  is  there  a greater  favourite  where 
English  is  spoken  ? ” My  father  and  Fitzgerald  then 
had  a contest  as  to  who  could  invent  the  weakest  Words- 
worthian line  imaginable.  Although  Fitzgerald  claimed 
this  line,  my  father  declared  that  he  had  composed  it — 

A Mr  Wilkinson,  a clergyman. 

While  my  father  was  in  the  Lake  Country  he  fell  in 
with  Hartley  Coleridge,  who  discussed  Pindar  with  him, 
calling  Pindar  “The  Newmarket  poet.”  “ Hartley  was 
wonderfully  eloquent,”  my  father  said,  “and  I suspect 
resembled  his  father  in  that  respect.  I liked  Hartley, 
‘ Massa  ’ Hartley.  I remember  that  on  one  occasion 
Hartley  was  asked  to  dine  with  the  family  of  a stiff 
Presbyterian  clergyman,  residing  in  the  Lake  district. 
The  party  sat  a long  time  in  the  drawing-room  waiting 
for  dinner.  Nobody  talked.  At  last  Hartley  could 

1 E.  F.  G.,  MS  Note. 


154 


VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l835 

stand  it  no  longer,  he  jumped  up  from  the  sofa,  kissed 
the  clergyman’s  daughter,  and  bolted  out  of  the  house. 
He  was  very  eccentric,  a sun-faced  little  man.  He  once 
went  a walking  tour  with  some  friends.  They  suddenly 
missed  him,  and  could  not  find  him  anywhere,  and  did 
not  see  him  again  for  six  weeks,  when  he  emerged  from 
some  inn.  He  was  a loveable  little  fellow.” 

Sonnet  to  Alfred  Tennyson , after  meeting  him 
for  the  first  time . 

Long  have  I known  thee  as  thou  art  in  song, 

And  long  enjoyed  the  perfume  that  exhales 
From  thy  pure  soul,  and  odour  sweet  entails 
And  permanence  on  thoughts  that  float  along 
The  stream  of  life,  to  join  the  passive  throng 
Of  shades  and  echoes  that  are  Memory’s  being; 
Hearing,  we  hear  not,  and  we  see  not,  seeing, 

If  Passion,  Fancy,  Faith,  move  not  among 
The  never-present  moments  of  reflection. 

Long  have  I viewed  thee  in  the  crystal  sphere 
Of  verse,  that  like  the  Beryl  makes  appear 
Visions  of  hope,  begot  of  recollection. 

Knowing  thee  now,  a real  earth-treading  man, 

Not  less  I love  thee  and  no  more  I can. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 

Of  this  visit  Spedding  wrote  to  Thompson: 

Alfred  left  us  about  a week  since,  homeward  bound,  but 
meaning  to  touch  at  Brookfield’s  on  his  way.  The  weather  has 
been  much  finer  since  he  went ; certainly,  while  he  was  here,  our 
northern  sun  did  not  display  himself  to  advantage.  Nevertheless 
I think  he  took  in  more  pleasure  and  inspiration  than  any  one 
would  have  supposed  who  did  not  know  his  almost  personal 
dislike  of  the  present,  whatever  it  may  be.  Hartley  Coleridge  is 
mightily  taken  with  him  ; and  after  the  fourth  bottom  of  gin, 
deliberately  thanked  Heaven  (under  me,  I believe,  or  me  under 
Heaven,  I forget  which)  for  having  brought  them  acquainted. 


155 


1835] 


LETTERS  FROM  SPEDDING  AND  FITZGERALD. 


Said  Hartley  was  busy  with  an  article  on  “ Macbeth,”  to  appear 
(the  vegetable  spirits  permitting)  in  the  next  Blackwood.  He 
confessed  to  a creed  touching  Destiny  which  was  new  to  me ; 
denying  Free-Will  (if  I understood  him  right)  in  toto ; but  at 
the  same  time  maintaining  that  man  is  solely  and  entirely 
answerable  for  whatever  evil  he  does,  not  merely  that  he  is 
to  suffer  for  it  but  that  he  is  answerable  for  it,  which  I do  not. 
I could  not  get  Alfred  to  Rydal  Mount,  he  would  and  would 
not1  (sulky  one),  although  Wordsworth  was  hospitably  minded 
towards  him ; and  would  have  been  more  so,  had  the  state  of  his 
household  permitted,  which  I am  sorry  to  say  is  full  of  sickness. 
...Alfred  despises  the  Citation  and  Exam,  of  W.  Shakespeare2. 


From  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

( After  the  visit  at  the  Speddmgs\  Mirehousei) 

London,  July  2nd,  1835. 

Dear  Tennyson, 

I suppose  you  have  heard  of  the  death  of  James 
Spedding’s  sister-in-law : for  my  part  I only  came  to  know  of  it 
a day  or  two  ago  : having  till  then  lived  out  of  communication 
with  any  one  who  was  likely  to  know  of  such  things.  After 
leaving  you  at  Ambleside,  I stayed  a fortnight  at  Manchester, 
and  then  went  to  Warwick,  where  I lived  a king  for  a month. 
Warwickshire  is  a noble  shire : and  the  Spring  being  so  late,  I 
had  the  benefit  of  it  through  most  of  the  month  of  June.  I 
sometimes  wished  for  you,  for  I think  you  would  have  liked 

it  well I have  heard  you  sometimes  say  that  you  are  bound 

by  the  want  of  such  and  such  a sum,  and  I vow  to  the  Lord  that 
I could  not  have  a greater  pleasure  than  transferring  it  to  you  on 
such  occasions ; I should  not  dare  to  say  such  a thing  to  a small 
man  : but  you  are  not  a small  man  assuredly : and  even  if  you 
do  not  make  use  of  my  offer,  you  will  not  be  offended  but  put  it 
to  the  right  account.  It  is  very  difficult  to  persuade  people 
in  this  world  that  one  can  part  with  a banknote  without  a pang. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  simple  things  I have  ever  done  to  talk  thus 
to  you,  I believe : but  here  is  an  end ; and  be  charitable  to  me. 

1 He  said  that  he  did  not  wish  to  “ obtrude  himself  on  the  great  man  at 
Rydal.” 

2 This  refers  to  Landor’s  Essay  so  named. 


156  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l835 

Edgeworth  1 is a wonderful  man,  but  I shall  be  very  serious 

with  him  lest  he  should  wean  you  from  indulging  in  quaint  and 
wonderful  imaginations,  and  screw  you  up  too  tightly  to  moral 
purpose.  If  this  sentence  is  unintelligible  to  you,  I will  console 
you  with  one  that  is  as  clear  as  daylight.  Your  muse  has 
penetrated  into  France  : there  has  been  a review  of  your  poems 
in  a paper  called  the  Voleur , in  which  you  are  called  — guess 
what!  — “Jeune  Enthousiaste  de  1’ecole  gracieuse  de  Thomas 
Moore  ” — this  I think  will  make  you  laugh  and  is  worth  postage. 
Now  I have  told  you  all  that  I have  in  my  head : it  is  fortunate 
that  the  sheet  of  paper  is  just  spacious  enough  for  my  out- 
pourings. The  “ Morte  d’Arthur  ” has  been  much  in  my  mouth : 
audibly : round  Warwick. 

I am  yours  very  truly,  E.  Fitzgerald. 

P.  S.  When  I was  at  Manchester,  I bought  a small  Dante 
for  myself  : and,  liking  it  well,  the  same  for  you  : for  I had  never 
seen  the  edition  before,  and  I dare  say  you  have  not.  It  is 
small  but  very  clearly  printed : with  little  explanations  at  the 
foot  of  each  page,  very  welcome  to  me  : the  proper  price  was  ten 
shillings  but  I only  gave  three. 

Leigh  Hunt  writes: 


4 Upper  Cheyne  Road,  Chelsea.  1835. 

The  Prince  Arthur 2 which  I should  have  brought  with  me, 
I will  send  to-morrow  or  next  day  by  a messenger  ; and  the  rest 
shall  reach  you  as  quickly  as  may  be.  Meanwhile  may  I 
venture  to  hope  that  my  two  non-appearances  will  not  hinder  me 
from  having  another  invitation  some  day,  or  yourself  from 
coming  to  see  me  ? Carlyle  expresses  the  pleasure  he  should 

have  in  meeting  you  here  some  evening Shall  I hope  to 

see  you  at  Carlyle’s  lecture  on  Monday  ? 

1 Nephew  of  Maria  Edgeworth,  the  “Little  Frank”  of  the  Parent's 

Assistant. 

2 This  copy  of  Malory  I have  still  in  my  possession,  a small  book  for  the 
pocket,  published  1816,  by  Walker  and  Edwards,  and  much  used  by  my 
father. 


lord  Northampton’s  annual. 


157 


From  R.  M.  Milnes . 

Your  brief  was  infallibly  pleasant.  I shall  wait  for  you  in 
December.  If  you  like,  we  will  have  “ Freezetown  ” (Fryston) 
all  to  ourselves  and  you  may  smoke  while  I play  the  organ. 
Now  be  a good  boy  and  do  as  you’re  told.  Lord  Northampton 
is  getting  up  a charity  book  of  poetry  for  the  destitute  family  of 
a man  of  letters,  born  in  the  dead  letter  office,  and  he  earnestly 
prays  you  to  contribute  not  your  mite  but  your  might  to  it.  I 
have  half  promised  you  will  give  him  something  pretty  consider- 
able, for  the  fault  of  the  book  will  be  that  the  contributions  are 
not  as  great  in  dimension  as  in  name.  He  has  got  original 
things  of  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Miss  Bailey,  R.  M.  M.  etc.  I 
will  love  you  more  and  more  therefore  if  you  will  send  some 
jewels  directed  to  the  Marquis  of  Northampton,  Castle  Ashby, 
Northampton,  as  soon  as  convenient.  Your  “ St  Agnes1  ” looks 
funny  between  Lord  Londonderry  and  Lord  W.  Lennox,  God 
her  aid ! I like  Brookfield’s  sonnet  eminently 

Yours  affectionately,  R.  M.  Milnes. 

P.  S.  You  know  your  contribution  will  be  at  your  disposal 
to  do  what  you  like  with  when  the  book  is  sold,  i.e.  in  a year 
or  so. 


To  R.  M.  Milne  s'1. 

December , 1836. 

Dear  Richard, 

As  I live  eight  miles  from  my  post-town  and 
only  correspond  therewith  about  once  a week,  you  must 
not  wonder  if  this  reaches  you  somewhat  late.  Your 
former  brief  I received,  though  some  six  days  behind 
time,  and  stamped  with  the  postmarks  of  every  little 
market-town  in  the  country,  but  I did  not  think  it 
demanded  an  immediate  answer,  hence  my  silence. 

1“St  Agnes,”  published  in  the  Keepsake  (1837),  pp.  247-48,  edited  by 
Lady  Emmeline  Stuart  Wortley. 

2 Quoted  in  Wemyss  Reid’s  Life  of  Lord  Houghto7i. 


158  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l837 

That  you  had  promised  the  Marquis  I would  write 
for  him  something  exceeding  the  average  length  of 
“Annual  compositions”;  that  you  had  promised  him  I 
would  write  at  all : I took  this  for  one  of  those  elegant 
fictions  with  which  you  amuse  your  aunts  of  evenings, 
before  you  get  into  the  small  hours  when  dreams  are 
true.  Three  summers  back,  provoked  by  the  incivility 
of  editors,  I swore  an  oath  that  I would  never  again 
have  to  do  with  their  vapid  books,  and  I brake  it  in  the 
sweet  face  of  Heaven  when  I wrote  for  Lady  What’s-her- 
name  Wortley.  But  then  her  sister  wrote  to  Brookfield 
and  said  she  (Lady  W.)  was  beautiful,  so  I could 
not  help  it.  But  whether  the  Marquis  be  beautiful 
or  not,  I don’t  much  mind ; if  he  be,  let  him  give  God 
thanks  and  make  no  boast.  To  write  for  people  with 
prefixes  to  their  names  is  to  milk  he-goats ; there  is 
neither  honour  nor  profit.  Up  to  this  moment  I have 
not  even  seen  The  Keepsake : not  that  I care  to  see  it, 
for  the  want  of  civility  decided  me  not  to  break  mine 
oath  again  for  man  nor  woman,  and  how  should  such  a 
modest  man  as  I see  my  small  name  in  collocation  with 
the  great  ones  of  Southey,  Wordsworth,  R.  M.  M.,  etc., 
and  not  feel  myself  a barndoor  fowl  among  peacocks  ? 
Goodbye. 

Believe  me  always  thine, 

A.  T. 

Milnes  was  angry  at  the  refusal,  and  my  father 
answered  him  banteringly  again: 

Jan.  10 //z,  1837  l. 

Why  what  in  the  name  of  all  the  powers,  my  dear 
Richard,  makes  you  run  me  down  in  this  fashion?  Now 
is  my  nose  out  of  joint,  now  is  my  tail  not  only  curled 


1 Quoted  in  Wemyss  Reid’s  Life  of  Lord  Houghton. 


LETTER  TO  MILNES. 


159 


1837] 

so  tight  as  to  lift  me  off  my  hind  legs  like  Alfred  Crow- 
quill’s  poodle,  but  fairly  between  them.  Many  sticks 
are  broken  about  me.  I am  the  ass  in  Homer.  I am 
blown.  What  has  so  jaundiced  your  good-natured  eyes 
as  to  make  them  mistake  harmless  banter  for  insolent 

irony : harsh  terms  applicable  only  to who  big  as 

he  is,  sits  to  all  posterity  astride  upon  the  nipple  of 
literary  dandyism,  and  “ takes  her  milk  for  gall  ”?  “ In- 

solent irony  ” and  “ piscatory  vanity,”  as  if  you  had 
been  writing  to  St  Anthony,  who  converted  the  soft 
souls  of  salmon ; but  may  St  Anthony’s  fire  consume 
all  misapprehension,  the  spleen-born  mother  of  five- 
fold more  evil  on  our  turnip-spheroid  than  is  malice 
aforethought. 

Had  I been  writing  to  a nervous,  morbidly-irritable 
man,  down  in  the  world,  stark-spoiled  with  the  staggers 
of  a mis-managed  imagination  and  quite  opprest  by 
fortune  and  by  the  reviews,  it  is  possible  that  I might 
have  halted  to  find  expressions  more  suitable  to  his 
case ; but  that  you,  who  seem  at  least  to  take  the  world 
as  it  comes,  to  doff  it,  and  let  it  pass,  that  you,  a man 
every  way  prosperous  and  talented,  should  have  taken 
pet  at  my  unhappy  badinage  made  me  lay  down  my 
pipe  and  stare  at  the  fire  for  ten  minutes,  till  the  stranger 
fluttered  up  the  chimney ! You  wish  that  I had  never 
written  that  passage.  So  do  I,  since  it  seems  to  have  given 
such  offence.  Perhaps  you  likewise  found  a stumbling- 
block  in  the  expression  “ vapid  books,”  as  the  angry 
inversion  of  four  commas  seems  so  intimate.  But  are 
not  Annuals  vapid  ? Or  could  I possibly  mean  that  what 
you  or  Trench  or  De  Vere  chose  to  write  therein  must 
be  vapid  ? I thought  you  knew  me  better  than  even 
to  insinuate  these  things.  Had  I spoken  the  same 
things  to  you  laughingly  in  my  chair,  and  with  my  own 
emphasis,  you  would  have  seen  what  they  really  meant, 
but  coming  to  read  them  peradventure  in  a fit  of  indi- 


160  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l837 

gestion,  or  with  a slight  matutinal  headache  after  your 
Apostolic  symposium  you  subject  them  to  such  mis- 
interpretation as,  if  I had  not  sworn  to  be  true  friend 
to  you  till  my  latest  death-ruckle,  would  have  gone  far 
to  make  me  indignant.  But  least  said  soonest  mended ; 
which  comes  with  peculiar  grace  from  me  after  all  this 
verbiage.  You  judge  me  rightly  in  supposing  that  I 
would  not  be  backward  in  doing  a really  charitable  deed. 
I will  either  bring  or  send  you  something  for  your 
Annual.  It  is  very  problematical  whether  I shall  be 
able  to  come  and  see  you  as  I proposed,  so  do  not 
return  earlier  from  your  tour  on  my  account ; and  if  I 
come,  I should  only  be  able  to  stop  a few  days,  for,  as 
I and  all  my  people  are  going  to  leave  this  place  very 
shortly  never  to  return,  I have  much  upon  my  hands. 
But  whether  I see  you  or  no, 

Believe  me  always  thine  affectionately, 

A.  Tennyson. 

I have  spoken  with  Charles.  He  has  promised  to 
contribute  to  your  Annual \ Frederick  will,  I daresay, 
follow  his  example.  See  now  whether  I am  not  doing 
my  best  for  you,  and  whether  you  had  any  occasion  to 
threaten  me  with  that  black  “Anacaona2”  and  her  cocoa- 
shod  coves  of  niggers.  I cannot  have  her  strolling  about 
the  land  in  this  way.  It  is  neither  good  for  her  repu- 
tation nor  mine.  When  is  Lord  Northampton’s  book 
to  be  published,  and  how  long  may  I wait  before  I send 
anything  by  way  of  contribution  ? 

“ O that  ’twere  possible,”  afterwards  the  foundation 
of  “ Maud,”  was  sent  to  Lord  Northampton.  Fitzgerald 
also  notes  that  in  this  year  my  father  wrote  a poem  on 


1 The  Tribute. 


2 P-  56- 


1837]  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ISLES.  l6l 

the  Queen’s  accession,  “ of  which  the  burden  was  ‘ Here’s 
a health  to  the  Queen  of  the  Isles.’  ” One  stanza  I have 
heard  my  father  repeat : 

( Unpublished.') 

That  the  voice  of  a satisfied  people  may  keep 
A sound  in  her  ears  like  the  sound  of  the  deep, 

Like  the  sound  of  the  deep  when  the  winds  are  asleep ; 
Here’s  a health  to  the  Queen  of  the  Isles. 

A fragment  of  a poem  about  Mablethorpe  he  wrote 
then,  and  gave  in  1850  to  the  Manchester  Athenceum 
Album : 

Mablethorpe. 

Here  often  when  a child  I lay  reclined : 

I took  delight  in  this  fair  strand  and  free ; 

Here  stood  the  infant  Ilion  of  the  mind, 

And  here  the  Grecian  ships  all  seem’d  to  be. 

And  here  again  I come,  and  only  find 
The  drain-cut  level  of  the  marshy  lea, 

Gray  sand-banks,  and  pale  sunsets,  dreary  wind, 

Dim  shores,  dense  rains,  and  heavy-clouded  sea. 

The  following  sonnet  was  also  preserved,  which  he 
wrote  at  the  end  of  1837  or  the  beginning  of  1838. 

Sonnet.  ( U np  ublished. ) 

To  thee  with  whom  my  true  affections  dwell, 

That  I was  harsh  to  thee,  let  no  one  know; 

It  were,  O Heaven,  a stranger  tale  to  tell 
Than  if  the  vine  had  borne  the  bitter  sloe. 

Tho’  I was  harsh,  my  nature  is  not  so : 

A momentary  cloud  upon  me  fell : 

My  coldness  was  mistimed  like  summer-snow, 

Cold  words  I spoke,  yet  loved  thee  warm  and  well. 
Was  I so  harsh  ? Ah  dear,  it  could  not  be. 

Seem’d  I so  cold  ? what  madness  moved  my  blood 


1 62  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l838 

To  make  me  thus  belie  my  constant  heart 

That  watch’t  with  love  thine  earliest  infancy, 

Slow-ripening  to  the  grace  of  womanhood, 

Thro’  every  change  that  made  thee  what  thou  art  ? 

It  was  in  the  latter  part  of  1837  or  the  beginning 
of  1838  that  he  appears  to  have  first  become  known  in 
America.  Professor  Rolfe,  who  has  kindly  interested 
himself  in  the  matter,  writes  to  me  that  R.  W.  Emerson 
somehow  made  acquaintance  with  the  1830  and  1832 
volumes  about  that  time  and  delighted  in  lending  them 
to  his  friends. 

Emerson  suggested  a reprint  of  the  volumes,  and 
Longfellow,  brother  of  the  poet,  showed  Prof.  Rolfe 
a letter  from  Messrs  C.  C.  Little  & Co.  of  Boston  ad- 
dressed to  the  poet  and  dated  April  27th,  1838,  stating 
that  they  intended  to  publish  the  reprint;  but  for  some 
reason  this  plan  was  not  carried  out. 

During  some  months  of  1837  my  father  was  deeply 
immersed  in  Pringle’s  Travels , and  Lyell’s  Geology : and 
from  Pringle  he  got  the  image  of  the  hungry  lion  used 
in  his  simile  in  “ Locksley  Hall 

Slowly  comes  a hungry  people,  as  a lion  creeping 
nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a slowly- 
dying  fire. 

He  received  the  following  letter  from  Leigh  Hunt, 
dated  July  31st : 

My  dear  Sir 

Many  thanks  for  your  kind  letter.  It  delights  me  to 
think  you  should  find  anything  to  like  in  my  verses,  especially 
“ Paganini.”  I always  fancy  that  if  ever  I write  anything  worthy 
of  the  name  of  poetry,  it  is  when  I write  about  music.  Your 


MISS  BARRETT. 


1838] 


16 


communication  alas ! came  too  late  for  the  book  in  question ; 
but  the  editor  shall  know  of  it,  and  will  doubtless  be  gratified 
that  you  have  written.  I wish  to  send  you  a copy  of  the  first 
number  of  the  new  series  of  a magazine  (the  Monthly  Repository ) 
of  which  I myself  have  become  editor ; but  have  not  the  face  to 
put  you  to  the  expense  of  receiving  it  at  such  a distance.  Will 
you  drop  me  a word  to  say  whether  I can  forward  it  to  any 
intermediate  place  of  communication,  and  will  you  at  the  same 
time  look  into  your  desk  and  see  if  you  can  oblige  me  with  a 
few  verses  and  your  name  to  them , for  my  new  adventure  ? You 
will  see  in  some  verses  of  mine,  in  the  number  I speak  of,  that  I 
have  taken  a liberty  with  said  name,  in  speaking  of  a fair  and  no 
unworthy  imitator  of  yours,  a Miss  Barrett1,  who  really  has 
sparks  of  the  “ faculty  divine,”  but  what  I say,  as  you  will  easily 
believe,  has  all  due  respect  and  admiration  at  the  bottom  of  it ; 
as  indeed  every  one  knows  who  knows  anything  about  you,  or 
about  what  I say  of  you.  Therefore  do  not  hesitate  to  send  me 
a Sibylline  leaf  if  you  can,  and  be  sure  I ask  it  for  your  honour 
and  glory  as  well  as  my  own  advantage.  I want  my  magazine 
to  be  such  a magazine  as  was  never  seen  before,  every  article 
worth  something,  though  / say  it  that  shouldn’t,  and  I believe 
you  know  my  gallant  wish  to  be  a sort  of  Robin  Hood  of  an 
editor,  with  not  a man  in  my  company  that  does  not  beat 
his  leader.  A sonnet  — a fragment  — anything  will  be  welcome, 
most  especially  if  you  put  your  name  to  it ; and  therefore  for  the 
sake  of  poetry  and  my  love  of  it,  again  I say,  oblige  me  if  you 
can;  and  also  send  instantly  because  time  begins  to  press. 

Ever  truly  yours,  Leigh  Hunt. 


P.  S.  The  magazine  shall  come  away  the  instant  I hear 
from  you  where  to  send  it. 


In  the  following  extract  from  an  unpublished  letter  of 
Leigh  Hunt’s  to  S.  C.  Hall  an  interesting  criticism  is 
given  of  my  father  and  his  brothers  Frederick  and 
Charles : 

I do  not  know  the  birth,  parentage  and  education  of  Tenny- 
son. I am  pretty  sure  however  that  he  is  not  long  come  from 

1 Afterwards  Mrs  Barrett  Browning. 


1 1 — 2 


164  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l838 

Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  I believe  him  to  be  nephew 
of  Tennyson  d’Eyncourt,  the  member  for  Lambeth,  and  son  of  a 
clergyman  (the  last  however  I know  still  more  dimly  than  the 
rest).  He  has  a brother  (Charles)  whom  you  ought  to  know,  if 
you  do  not  know  him  already. 

I will  send  you  his  vol.  of  Sonnets  to-morrow,  together  with 
the  only  vol.  which  I have  at  home  (I  find)  of  Alfred’s.  If  it  is 
not  the  one  you  want,  I will  see  who  has  got  the  other.  Charles 
is  not  equal  to  Alfred,  but  still  partakes  of  the  genuine  faculty. 
He  has  a graceful  luxury  but  combining  less  of  the  spiritual 
with  it,  which,  I suppose,  is  the  reason  why  he  has  become 
clergyman ! I was  fearful  of  what  he  would  come  to  by  certain 
migivings  in  his  poetry  and  a want  of  the  active  poetic  faith. 

There  is  also  another  brother,  perhaps  less  inspired  than 
Charles  and  who  has  only  put  forth  a sonnet  or  so  in  public, 
Frederick,  but  still  partaking  of  the  right  vein ; and  I think 
I have  heard  there  are  two  of  the  sisters  poetical ! Here  is 
a nest  of  nightingales  for  you  ! *** 

The  materials  of  the  noblest  poetry  are  abundant  in  him 
(Alfred),  and  we  trust  will  not  find  any  too  weak  corner  in  the 
sensitiveness  of  his  nature  to  oppress  him  with  their  very 
exuberance. 

Mr  Gladstone,  as  is  well-known,  was  Arthur  Hallam’s 
school  friend,  and  on  this  account  my  father  had  a 
romantic  desire  to  see  him;  and  so  called  upon  him 
about  this  time.  I wrote  to  Mr  Gladstone  for  some 
details  of  their  early  intercourse  and  he  kindly  replied: 

10  Downing  Street,  Whitehall,  October , 1892. 

My  dear  Hallam, 

I am  afraid  that  I shall  have  to  adjourn  any  attempt 
to  record  my  intercourse  with  your  father  until  after  my  resigna- 
tion of  my  present  office,  and  even  then  I fear  it  might  have  to 
compete  with  the  demands  of  my  unfinished  work. 

I do  not  think  that  at  any  time  during  the  last  forty  years  I 
have  ever  found  myself  able  when  in  office  to  give  continuous 
thoughts  on  any  subject  outside  public  affairs.  I will  however 
allow  myself  the  pleasure  of  referring  to  the  first  occasion  on 


1838]  FIRST  MEETING  WITH  MR  GLADSTONE.  1 65 

which  I saw  him.  It  was  about  the  year  1837,  when  he  called 
on  me  in  Carlton  Gardens.  This  was  an  unexpected  honour, 
for  I had  no  other  tie  with  him  than  having  been  in  earlier  life 
the  friend  of  his  friend,  to  whom  he  afterwards  erected  so 
splendid  a literary  monument.  I cannot  now  remember  parti- 
culars, but  I still  retain  the  liveliest  impression  of  both  the 
freedom  and  kindness  with  which  he  conversed  with  me  during 
a long  interview. 

I am  greatly  pleased  to  hear  that  you  have  undertaken  the 
“ Life,”  — doubtless  an  arduous  task,  but  one  to  which  your  titles 
are  multiple  as  well  as  clear. 

Believe  me  most  sincerely  yours, 

W.  E.  Gladstone. 

The  years  spent  in  strenuous  labour  and  self-educa- 
tion, and  his  engagement  to  Emily  Sellwood,  had  again 
braced  my  father  for  the  struggle  of  life.  The  current  of 
his  mind  no  longer  ran  constantly  in  the  channel  of  mourn- 
ful memories  and  melancholy  forebodings.  During  this 
autumn  of  1838  he  sought  out  “fresh  woods  and  pastures 
new”  in  Torquay,  where  he  wrote  his  “ Audley  Court.” 
His  friends  had  not  yet  grasped  the  change  in  the  tenor 
of  his  thoughts  and  still  tried  to  cheer  him.  “ Go  and  live 
at  Cambridge,”  said  Venables.  “ You  might  perceive,  if 
you  had  any  doubt  about  it,  when  you  were  last  there 
how  great  a pleasure  it  was  to  us  all  to  see  you,  and 
how  little  trouble  to  provide  for  you.  Now  you  would 
be  more  at  home  there  than  you  were  then  after  so  long 
an  absence,  and  you  can  get  books  innumerable,  and 
smoke  and  talk,  or  not  talk ; and  make  poetry  and 
commit  it  to  surer  records  than  the  leaves  of  which  so 
many  are  lost.  Do  not  continue  to  be  so  careless  of 
fame , and  of  influence .”  Or  again  he  advised  my  father 
to  go  and  work  in  Prague,  where  he  would  receive  new 
impressions  and  a new  stimulus  to  the  imagination. 

“ I almost  wonder  that  you  with  your  love  of  music 
and  tobacco  do  not  go  and  live  in  some  such  place.” 


1 66  VISITS  TO  THE  LAKES  AND  ELSEWHERE.  [l838 

Yet  my  father  paid  heed  to  none  of  these  invitations, 
but  went  his  own  way.  He  had  abundant  materials 
now  for  publication.  He  had  made  friends  in  London, 
and  when  he  published  again  he  would  start  as  a well- 
known  man,  with  the  certainty  that  he  could  not  be 
overlooked  and  that  by  many  he  would  be  appreciated. 
He  was  on  the  whole  happy  in  his  life,  and  looked 
forward  to  still  better  days. 

Hope,  a poising  eagle,  burnt 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow. 

He  must  earn  a livelihood  on  which  to  marry.  He 
would  arrange  his  material  and  give  as  perfect  a volume 
as  he  could  to  the  world.  “ I felt  certain  of  one  point 
then,”  he  said : “ if  I meant  to  make  any  mark  at  all, 
it  must  be  by  shortness,  for  the  men  before  me  had  been 
so  diffuse,  and  most  of  the  big  things  except  ‘ King 
Arthur’  had  been  done.”  Another  fact  also  began  to 
dawn  upon  him,  that  if  he  never  published  again,  even 
that  which  he  had  published  “ would  be  taken  out  of  its 
napkin  and  would  be  given  to  him  who  had  published 
ten  volumes.” 


CHAPTER  VII.* 


EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  TO  EMILY  SELLWOOD. 

[These  extracts,  that  follow  chronological  order,  are  made  from  a series  of 
letters  from  my  father  to  my  mother  extending  over  three  years.  I 
have  not  felt  able  to  include  the  many  passages  which  would  show 
the  intensity  of  feeling  expressed  in  these  letters,  but  have  burnt  the 
correspondence  according  to  my  father’s  directions.] 

1838-1840. 

1838.  I saw  from  the  high  road  thro’  Hagworth- 
ingham  the  tops  of  the  elms  on  the  lawn  at  Somersby 
beginning  to  kindle  into  green.  Do  you  remember  sitting 
with  me  there  on  the  iron  garden  chair  one  day  when 
I had  just  come  from  London?  It  was  earlier  in  the 
year  than  now.  I have  no  reason  for  asking  except  that 
the  morning  three  years  back  seems  fresh  and  pleasant ; 
and  you  were  in  a silk  pelisse,  and  I think  I read  some 
book  with  you. 


I dare  not  tell  how  high  I rate  humour,  which  is 
generally  most  fruitful  in  the  highest  and  most  solemn 
human  spirits.  Dante  is  full  of  it,  Shakespeare,  Cer- 
vantes, and  almost  all  the  greatest  have  been  pregnant 
with  this  glorious  power.  You  will  find  it  even  in  the 
Gospel  of  Christ. 


Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 
167 


1 68  EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  TO  EMILY  SELLWOOD.  [l83£ 

1839.  “The  stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God,” 
unclothed  with  the  warmth  of  the  feelings,  is  as  impotent 
to  convert  as  the  old  Stoicism. 


Wells . The  light  of  this  world  is  too  full  of  refrac- 
tions for  men  ever  to  see  one  another  in  their  true 
positions.  The  world  is  better  than  it  is  called,  but 
wrong  and  foolish.  The  whole  framework  seems  wrong,, 
which  in  the  end  shall  be  found  right. 


Bitterness  of  any  sort  becomes  not  the  sons  of  Adam, 
still  less  pride,  for  they  are  in  that  talk  of  theirs  for  the 
most  part  but  as  children  babbling  in  the  market-place. 


High  Beech.  I have  been  at  this  place  (High  Beech 
in  Epping  Forest)  all  the  year,  with  nothing  but  that 
muddy  pond  in  prospect,  and  those  two  little  sharp- 
barking dogs. 

Perhaps  I am  coming  to  the  Lincolnshire  coast,  but 
I scarcely  know.  The  journey  is  so  expensive  and  I 
am  so  poor. 


The  far  future  has  been  my  world  always. 


I shall  never  see  the  Eternal  City,  nor  that  dome, 
the  wonder  of  the  world ; I do  not  think  I would  live 
there  if  I could,  and  I have  no  money  for  touring. 


Mablethorpe . I am  not  so  able  as  in  old  years  to 
commune  alone  with  Nature.  I am  housed  at  Mr 
Wildman’s,  an  old  friend  of  mine  in  these  parts : he 
and  his  wife  are  two  perfectly  honest  Methodists.  When 


JOHN  KEMBLE. 


169 


1839] 

I came,  I asked  her  after  news,  and  she  replied : “ Why, 
Mr  Tennyson,  there’s  only  one  piece  of  news  that  I 
know,  that  Christ  died  for  all  men.”  And  I said  to  her: 
“ That  is  old  news,  and  good  news,  and  new  news  ” ; 
wherewith  the  good  woman  seemed  satisfied.  I was 
half-yesterday  reading  anecdotes  of  Methodist  ministers, 
and  liking  to  read  them  too. ..and  of  the  teaching  of 
Christ,  that  purest  light  of  God. 


That  made  me  count  the  less  of  the  sorrows  when 
I caught  a glimpse  of  the  sorrowless  Eternity. 


A good  woman  is  a wondrous  creature,  cleaving  to  the 
right  and  the  good  in  all  change ; lovely  in  her  youthful 
comeliness,  lovely  all  her  life  long  in  comeliness  of  heart. 


London . There  is  no  one  here  but  John  Kemble 
with  whom  I dined  twice;  he  is  full  of  burning  indig- 
nation against  the  Russian  policy  and  what  he  calls 
the  moral  barbarism  of  France:  likewise  he  is  striving 
against  what  he  calls  the  “ mechanic  influence  of  the  age 
and  its  tendency  to  crush  and  overpower  the  spiritual  in 
man,”  and  indeed  what  matters  it  how  much  man  knows 
and  does  if  he  keeps  not  a reverential  looking  upward  ? 
He  is  only  the  subtlest  beast  in  the  field. 


We  must  bear  or  we  must  die.  It  is  easier  perhaps 
to  die,  but  infinitely  less  noble.  The  immortality  of  man 
disdains  and  rejects  the  thought,  the  immortality  of  man 
to  which  the  cycles  and  the  aeons  are  as  hours  and 
as  days. 


170  EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  TO  EMILY  SELLWOOD.  [l839 

“ Why  has  God  created  souls  knowing  they  would 
sin  and  suffer  ? ” a question  unanswerable.  Man  is 
greater  than  all  animals  because  he  is  capable  of  moral 
good  and  evil,  tho’  perhaps  dogs  and  elephants,  and 
some  of  the  higher  mammalia  have  a little  of  this 
capability.  God  might  have  made  me  a beast ; but  He 
thought  good  to  give  me  power,  to  set  Good  and  Evil 
before  me  that  I might  shape  my  own  path.  The 
happiness,  resulting  from  this  power  well  exercised,  must 
in  the  end  exceed  the  mere  physical  happiness  of  breath- 
ing, eating,  and  sleeping  like  an  ox.  Can  we  say  that 
God  prefers  higher  happiness  in  some  to  a lower  happi- 
ness in  all  ? It  is  a hard  thing  that  if  I sin  and  fail  I 
should  be  sacrificed  to  the  bliss  of  the  Saints.  Yet  what 
reasonable  creature,  if  he  could  have  been  askt  before- 
hand, would  not  have  said,  “ Give  me  the  metaphysical 
power ; let  me  be  the  lord  of  my  decisions  ; leave  physical 
quietude  and  dull  pleasure  to  lower  lives.”  All  souls 
methinks  would  have  answered  thus,  and  so  had  men 
suffered  by  their  own  choice,  as  now  by  the  necessity  of 
being  born  what  they  are,  but  there  is  no  answer  to  these 
questions  except  in  a great  hope  of  universal  good : and 
even  then  one  might  ask,  why  has  God  made  one  to 
suffer  more  than  another,  why  is  it  not  meted  equally 
to  all  ? Let  us  be  silent,  for  we  know  nothing  of  these 
things,  and  we  trust  there  is  One  who  knows  all.  God 
cannot  be  cruel.  If  he  were,  the  heart  could  only  find 
relief  in  the  wildest  blasphemies,  which  would  cease  to 
be  blasphemies.  God  must  be  all  powerful,  else  the  soul 
could  never  deem  Him  worthy  of  her  highest  worship. 
Let  us  leave  it  therefore  to  God,  as  to  the  wisest.  Who 
knows  whether  revelation  be  not  itself  a veil  to  hide  the 
glory  of  that  Love  which  we  could  not  look  upon  without 
marring  our  sight,  and  our  onward  progress  ? If  it  were 
proclaimed  as  a truth  “ No  man  shall  perish  : all  shall  live, 
after  a certain  time  shall  have  gone  by,  in  bliss  with  God  ” 


1839]  “THE  DREAMS  OF  SPACE  AND  TIME.”  I 7 1 

such  a truth  might  tell  well  with  one  or  two  lofty  spirits, 
but  would  be  the  hindrance  of  the  world. 


High  Beech , July  ioth.  What  a thunderstorm  we  had 
the  other  night ! I wonder  whether  it  was  so  bad  at  H — . 
It  lasted  the  whole  night  and  part  of  the  previous  after- 
noon. Lewis  Fytche,  who  was  with  us  then,  was  looking 
out  of  my  window  about  half-past  1 1 o’clock,  and  saw  a 
large  fireball  come  up  the  valley  from  Waltham  till  it 
seemed  to  come  quite  over  our  pond : it  then  according 
to  his  account  grew  on  a sudden  amazingly  large.  How 
large  ? I askt  him : he  said,  “ like  a great  balloon,  and 
burst  with  an  explosion  like  fifty  batteries  of  cannon.”  I 
was  so  sorry  not  to  have  seen  it,  for  it  was  a thing  to 
remember;  but  I had  just  gone  to  my  mother’s  room: 
she  was  grovelling  on  the  floor  in  an  extremity  of  fear 
when  the  clap  came ; upon  which  she  cried  out,  “ Oh ! 
I will  leave  this  house : the  storms  are  very  bad  here,” 
and  F — ■ who  is  here  burst  out  weeping.  Such  a scene, 
almost  ludicrous  in  its  extremes. 


I have  been  engaged  in  packing  books.  I have  a 
good  many.  I am  afraid  I shall  be  obliged  to  sell  them, 
for  I really  do  not  know  where  to  stow  them  and  the 
house  at  Tunbridge  is  too  small,  a mere  mouse-trap. 


All  life  is  a school,  a preparation,  a purpose : nor  can 
we  pass  current  in  a higher  college,  if  we  do  not  undergo 
the  tedium  of  education  in  this  lower  one. 


Annihilate  within  yourself  these  two  dreams  of  Space 
and  Time.  To  me  often  the  far-off  world  seems  nearer 


172  EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  TO  EMILY  SELLWOOD  [l839 

than  the  present,  for  in  the  present  is  always  something 
unreal  and  indistinct,  but  the  other  seems  a good  solid 
planet,  rolling  round  its  green  hills  and  paradises  to 
the  harmony  of  more  steadfast  laws.  There  steam  up 
from  about  me  mists  of  weakness,  or  sin,  or  despondency, 
and  roll  between  me  and  the  far  planet,  but  it  is  there 
still. 


Dim  mystic  sympathies  with  tree  and  hill  reaching 
far  back  into  childhood.  A known  landskip  is  to  me 
an  old  friend,  that  continually  talks  to  me  of  my  own 
youth  and  half-forgotten  things,  and  indeed  does  more 
for  me  than  many  an  old  friend  that  I know.  An  old 
park  is  my  delight,  and  I could  tumble  about  it  for  ever. 


Sculpture  is  particularly  good  for  the  mind:  there 
is  a height  and  divine  stillness  about  it  which  preaches 
peace  to  our  stormy  passions.  Methinks  that,  in  looking 
upon  a great  statue  like  the  Theseus  (maim’d  and  defaced 
as  it  is),  one  becomes  as  it  were  Godlike,  to  feel  things 
in  the  Idea. 


There  is  the  glory  of  being  loved,  for  so  have  we 
“ laid  great  bases  for  Eternity.” 


Thro’  darkness  and  storm  and  weariness  of  mind 
and  of  body  is  there  built  a passage  for  His  created 
ones  to  the  gates  of  light. 


That  world  of  perfect  chrysolite,  a pure  and  noble 
heart. 


1839] 


TOUR  IN  WALES. 


173 


Aberystwith.  I cannot  say  I have  seen  much  worth 
the  trouble  of  the  journey,  always  excepting  the  Welsh- 
women’s hats  which  look  very  comical  to  an  Eng- 
lish eye,  being  in  truth  men’s  hats,  beavers,  with  the 
brim  a little  broad,  and  tied  under  the  chin  with  a 
black  ribband.  Some  faces  look  very  pretty  in  them. 
It  is  remarkable  how  fluently  the  little  boys  and  girls 
can  speak  Welsh,  but  I have  seen  no  leeks  yet,  nor  shot 
any  cheeses.  This  place,  the  Cambrian  Brighton,  pleases 
me  not, ...a  sea  certainly  to-day  of  a most  lovely  blue, 
but  with  scarce  a ripple.  Anything  more  unlike  the 
old  Homeric  “ much-sounding  ” sea  I never  saw.  Yet 
the  bay  is  said  to  be  tempestuous.  O for  a good 
Mablethorpe  breaker!  I took  up  this  morning  an  un- 
happy book  of  English  verse  by  a Welshman,  and  read 
therein  that  all  which  lies  at  present  swampt  fathom- 
deep  under  the  bay  of  Carnarvon  was  long  ago  in  the 
twilight  of  history  a lovely  lowland,  rich  in  woods,  thick 
with  cities.  One  wild  night  a drunken  man,  who  was 
a sort  of  clerk  of  the  drains  and  sewers  in  his  time, 
opened  the  dam-gates  and  let  in  the  sea,  and  Heaven 
knows  how  many  stately  palaces  have  ever  since  been 
filled  with  polyps  and  sea-tangle.  How  many  gentlemen 
discussing  after-dinner  politics  of  that  day  were  surprised 
by  the  precocious  entrance  of  lobster  before  supper ! 
How  many  young  ladies  playing  at  their  pre-historic 
pianos  ended  some  warm  love-song  of  life  in  a quavering 
swan-song  of  death ! 


I require  quiet,  and  myself  to  myself,  more  than  any 
man  when  I write. 


Barmouth.  Barmouth  is  a good  deal  prettier  place 
than  Aberystwith,  a flat  sand  shore,  a sea  with  breakers, 
looking  Mablethorpelike,  and  sand  hills,  and  close  behind 


174  EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  TO  EMILY  SELLWOOD.  [l839 

them  huge  crags  and  a long  estuary  with  cloud-capt  hills 
running  up  as  far  as  Dolgeliy,  with  Cader  Idris  on  one 
side. 


The  most  beautiful  thing  I saw  this  time  in  Wales  — 
Llanberis  lakes.  (“Edwin  Morris”  was  written  there.) 


In  letters , words  too  often  prove  a bar  of  hindrance 
instead  of  a bond  of  union. 


London . My  friends  have  long  since  ceased  to  write, 
knowing  me  to  be  so  irregular  a correspondent.  A brief 
and  terse  style  suits  the  man,  but  the  woman  is  well 
when  she  deals  in  words. 


So  much  to  do  and  so  much  to  feel  in  parting  from 
the  house.  Such  a scene  of  sobbing  and  weeping  was 
there  on  Monday  morning  among  the  servants  at  Beech 
Hill,  and  cottagers’  daughters,  as  that  cockney  residence 
has  seldom  witnessed,  perhaps  never  since  its  stones 
were  cemented  and  trowelled.  There  were  poor  Milnes 
wringing  her  hands  and  howling,  Ann  Green  swallowing 
her  own  tears  with  exclamations  of  such  pathos  as  would 
have  moved  the  heart  of  a whinstone,  and  other  villagers 
all  joining  in  the  chorus,  as  if  for  some  great  public 
calamity.  Finding  we  had  human  hearts,  though  we 
lived  in  a big  house,  they  thought  it  all  the  harder  that 
they  were  to  lose  us  so  soon.  We  drove  the  other  day  to 
see  a Captain  Pellew,  who  had  drawn  several  sketches 
of  the  Himala  mountains.  Capt.  P.  said  that  in  the  early 
morning  when  all  the  hills  were  wrapt  in  blackness,  the 
sharp  snow-peaks  shine  out  like  rosy  lamps  hung  high 
up  in  heaven,  and  apparently  having  no  connection  with 


1840] 


VISIT  TO  WARWICK. 


1 75 


this  earth.  A man  who  had  just  visited  the  Alps  was 
with  him  there,  and  he  said  “ the  Himala  was  just  twice 
as  magnificent.” 


Warwick.  1840.  I got  into  the  third  class  of 
carriages  in  the  train  to  Leicester.  It  is  a carriage 
entirely  open,  without  seats,  nothing  but  a rail  or  two 
running  across  it,  something  like  pens  of  cattle... .Tho’ 
we  did  not  move  very  quickly,  yet  it  was  liker  flying  than 
anything  else.... I learnt  some  curious  lessons  in  per- 
spective, e.g.  the  two  rails  on  the  road  were  always 
drawn  together  with  the  greatest  rapidity.  I stopt  last 
night  at  Leicester,  and  came  on  here  (to  Warwick)  this 
morning  by  a slow  mail.  On  driving  into  Warwick,  by 
great  chance  I happened  to  have  my  glass  in  my  eye 
and  perceived  my  friend,  Edward  Fitzgerald,  taking 
his  walk  on  the  pave  towards  Leamington.  I stopt 
the  coach,  and  he  got  up,  and  we  drove  to  the  George 
here,  and  had  an  evening  together.  Kenilworth  looked 
grand  in  the  distance.  I think  of  going  over  with  Fitz 
to-morrow.  Warwick  not  to  be  seen  till  Saturday  as 
the  family  are  there.  Almost  afraid  I cannot  stop  as 
long,  as  it  is  very  expensive  being  at  an  inn.  Warwick 
Castle  looked  grand  and  black  among  its  woods  from  the 
bridge  this  evening,  a nightingale  was  singing,  and  rooks 
were  cawing,  and  there  was  moreover  the  noise  of  a 
waterfall. 


London.  I went  thro’  Warwick  Castle.  It  is  certainly 
a noble  specimen  of  old  feudalism,  and  the  views  from  the 
windows  would  be  of  unrivalled  loveliness  if  the  river 
were  only  clearer.  I and  Fitzgerald  also  (climbed)  up 
Guy’s  tower,  and  had  “ large  prospect  ” of  the  surrounding 
country : but  nothing  pleased  me  better  on  the  whole  than 
two  paintings  I saw  in  the  castle : one,  an  Admiral  van 


176  EXTRACTS  FROM  LETTERS  TO  EMILY  SELLWOOD.  [l840 

Tromp  by  Rembrandt,  the  other  Macchiavelli  by  Titian, 
both  wonderful  pictures,  but  the  last  grand  beyond  all 
words.  We  strayed  about  the  gardens.. ..Afterwards  we 
went  to  Stratford  and  saw  Shakespeare’s  monument.  I 
should  not  think  it  can  be  a good  likeness.  That  foolish 
fellow  painted  it  white  all  over,  and  served  poor  Johnny 
Combe,  who  lies  on  a monument  near,  in  the  same  way. 
I suppose  from  a notion  that  so  painted  they  would  look 
more  classic,  but  the  monuments  all  about  were  gilded  and 
painted,  and  so  were  theirs.  By  which  fancy  of  Malone 
we  have  in  all  probability  lost  the  colour  of  Shakespeare’s 
hair  and  eyes,  which  perhaps  would  do  the  world  very 
little  good  to  know,  but  would  have  been  a little  satis- 
faction to  poor  physiognomists  like  myself.  We  went 
also  into  the  room  where  they  say  he  was  born.  Every 
part  of  it  is  scribbled  over  with  names.  I was  seized 
with  a sort  of  enthusiasm,  and  wrote  mine,  tho’  I was 
a little  ashamed  of  it  afterwards  : yet  the  feeling  was 
genuine  at  the  time,  and  I did  homage  with  the  rest. 
I forgot  Kenilworth.  We  tumbled  about  the  ruins 
for  three  hours,  but  I was  rather  disappointed.  I had 
expected  to  find  them  larger  and  more  august.  (My 
father  came  from  Coventry  to  London  and  wrote 
“ Godiva.”  He  encloses  “a  virgin-ballad  never  yet 
written  down,”  “ Sweet  Emma  Morland  ” — “ simple 
enough  at  any  rate,”  he  writes  of  it.) 


After  this  date  all  correspondence  between  Alfred 
Tennyson  and  Emily  Sellwood  was  forbidden;  since 
there  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  their  ever  being 
married,  owing  to  that  unfortunately 

“ Eternal  want  of  pence 
Which  vexes  public  men.” 


184o] 


LETTER  TO  TENNANT. 


177 


Letters  to  and  from  friends , 1840-1842 

This  letter  to  Tennant,  without  date  or  address,  I 
have  found  among  the  letters  received  from  his  friends 
at  this  period: 

To  Reverend  R,  J.  Tennant 1. 

My  dear  Robert, 

It  is  about  three  centuries  since  I heard  from 
you.  I suppose  you  did  not  calculate  on  my  sending 
you  any  answer,  had  you  written.  I think  it  just  possible 
that  I might:  however  my  regard  for  you  has  thriven 
as  lustily  as  ever  in  the  silence,  and  I have  had,  now  and 
then,  certain  memorials  of  you  from  different  quarters: 
not  indeed  altogether  grateful,  for  I am  told  that  your 
wife  has  been  ill  almost  the  whole  time  you  have  been 
in  Italy,  also  that  you  had  lost  great  part  of  your  library 
by  shipwreck,  also  that  you  hated  the  land  of  the  sun, 
where  men,  according  to  Alfieri,  come  up  more  vigorously 
than  in  other  latitudes.  Often  have  I intended  to  come 
over  and  pay  you  a visit,  and  as  often  my  empty  purse 
has  gaped  in  my  face  and  broken  my  dream  of  you  and 
the  Pitti  palace  together.  Well,  I suppose  we  shall 
meet  somewhere  or  other  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  and 
that  our  friendship  at  Cambridge  has  not  been  only  to 
cease  to  be.  How  many  puns  have  we  made  together ! 
how  many  walks  have  we  taken  arm  in  arm  in  the  dark 
streets  of  the  old  University  and  on  the  Trumpington 

1 Since  Cambridge  days  Tennant  had  been  in  an  unsettled  frame  of 
mind.  He  had  been  a frequenter  of  Coleridge’s  famous  gatherings  at 
Highgate,  had  been  shaken  in  his  belief  and  had  hesitated,  like  many 
others  then,  to  take  orders.  Subsequently  he  was  ordained  and  became 
curate  to  J.  C.  Hare,  at  Hurstmonceux  (a  post  afterwards  filled  by  John 
Sterling),  then  he  lived  for  several  years  as  English  chaplain  at  Florence, 
where  he  died. 


t.  1. 


2 


MABLETHORPE. 


178 


[l841 


road ! and  how  you  used  to  scepticize  till  we  both  ran 
away ! 

My  people  are  located  at  a place  which  is  my 
abomination,  viz.  Tunbridge  Wells  in  this  county;  they 
moved  thither  from  Essex  by  the  advice  of  a London 
physician,  who  said  it  was  the  only  place  in  England 
for  the  Tennyson  constitution:  the  sequel  is  that  they 
are  half  killed  by  the  tenuity  of  the  atmosphere  and  the 
presence  of  steel  more  or  less  in  earth,  air  and  water. 
I have  sometimes  tried  to  persuade  them  to  live  abroad 
but  without  effect,  and  I dare  say  you  in  your  exile  agree 
with  them  that  there  is  no  place  like  an  English  home. 

I came  over  to  this  place  about  a fortnight  back. 

A.  T. 


To  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

Mablethorpe,  Alford,  1841. 

Dear  old  Fitz, 

Not  on  the  Western,  on  the  Eastern  coast. 
Mablethorpe  near  Alford  in  the  fat  shire  of  Lincoln  is 
the  place  where  I am.  I walk  about  the  coast,  and  have 
it  all  to  myself,  sand  and  sea.  You  bore  me  about  my 
book ; so  does  a letter  just  received  from  America, 
threatening,  tho’  in  the  civilest  terms,  that,  if  I will  not 
publish  in  England,  they  will  do  it  for  me  in  that  land 
of  freemen.  I may  curse,  knowing  what  they  will  bring 
forth.  But  I don’t  care.  I am  in  a great  haste  writing 
for  the  muffin-man,  my  only  communication  with  the 
world,  who  comes  once  a week  bringing  the  produce  of 
his  art,  also  what  letters  may  be  stagnating  at  the  Alford 
post,  waits  five  minutes  and  then  returns. 

Always  yours,  A.  T. 


184l] 


BOLTON  ABBEY  AND  WHARFEDALE. 


179 


To  Edmund  Lushing  ton. 

Otley,  September  19  th,  1841. 

My  dear  Edmund, 

This  is  to  let  you  know  that  I am  at  present 
in  the  classic  neighbourhood  of  Bolton  Abbey  whither 
I was  led  the  other  day  by  some  half-remembrance  of 
a note  to  one  of  Wordsworths  poems,  which  told  with 
me  (to  speak  the  truth)  more  than  the  poem  itself : said 
Wordsworth  having  stated,  (as  far  as  I recollect)  that 
everything  which  the  eyes  of  man  could  desire  in  a land- 
skip  was  to  be  found  at  and  about  the  Abbey  aforesaid. 
I,  coming  with  an  imagination  inflamed,  and  working 
upon  this  passage,  was  at  first  disappointed,  but  yesterday 
I took  a walk  of  some  seven  or  eight  or,  by  our  Lady, 
nine  miles,  to  left  and  right  of  the  Wharfe,  and  you  may 
conjecture  that  no  ordinary  charms  of  nature  could  get 
nine  miles  walk  out  of  legs  (at  present ) more  familiar 
with  armchair  and  settle  than  rock  and  greensward,  so 
that  I suppose  there  is  something  in  what  Wordsworth 
asserts,  and  that  something  will  probably  keep  me  here 
some  time,  and  whether  I shall  see  you  or  no  before  you 
return  to  Glasgow  is  thereby  rendered  uncertain.  I 
suppose  there  is  no  chance  of  your  coming  here,  is  there  ? 
that  would  be  a Godsend  I have  no  right  to  expect,  but 
Harry  at  High  Beech  was  a Godsend  I did  not  expect. 
Poor  fellow,  he  was  very  nervous,  very  uncomfortable 
too  about  his  Italian  journey,  but  in  that  respect  I found 
it  hard  to  sympathize  with  him. 

Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


12 — 2 


[1842 


l8o  “CENONE”lN  GREEK  HEXAMETERS. 


To  Edmund  Lushington. 

Boxley,  Early  in  184?. 

Dear  Edmund, 

I was  very  glad  to  hear  of  the  reconvalescence 
of  your  “ Geschwister  ” for  I had  some  fancy  (as  I told 
you)  that  all  was  not  right.  Your  lines1  I liked.  Some 
doubt  I had  about  “ 7ro\vm§afC€  ” but  Venables  set  me 
right : not  that  I believed  you  could  be  out  of  your  Greek, 
but  the  “ noXvjTLhaKos  *18179  ” ran  in  my  head.  “Naayx<S  iv 
dfjL(j)LpvTco  ” is  a wrong  translation,  the  rest  good.  I have 
no  news.  I have  not  yet  taken  my  book  to  Moxon. 
Spedding’s  going  to  America  has  a little  disheartened 
me,  for  some  fop  will  get  the  start  of  him  in  the  Ed, . 
Review  where  he  promised  to  put  an  article  and  I have 
had  abuse  enough.  Moreover  Spedding  was  just  the 
man  to  do  it,  both  as  knowing  me,  and  writing  from 
clear  conviction.  However  I intend  to  get  it  out  shortly, 
but  I cannot  say  I have  been  what  you  professors  call 
“ working  ” at  it,  that  indeed  is  not  my  way.  I take 
my  pipe  and  the  muse  descends  in  a fume,  not  like 
your  modern  ladies  who  shriek  at  a pipe  as  if  they  saw 
a “ splacknuck  ” : do  you  know  what  a splacknuck  is 2 ? 
I have  been  once  into  your  grounds,  the  house  looked 
very  unhappy.  Charles  and  I went  together:  he  admired 
the  place  much,  tho’  everything  was  deep  in  snow. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 


1 A translation  of  “ CEnone”  in  Greek  hexameters. 

2 “ His  Majesty,  a Prince  of  much  Gravity,  and  austere  Countenance, 
not  well  observing  my  shape  at  first  view,  asked  the  Queen  after  a cold 
manner,  how  long  it  was  since  she  grew  fond  of  a Splack7iuck  ? for  such  it 
seems  he  took  me  to  be,  as  I lay  upon  my  breast  on  her  Majesty’s  Right 
hand.”  Swift’s  Voyage  to  Brobdingnag. 


184l] 


STERLING  AND  CARLYLE. 


181 


From  John  Sterling . 

South  Place,  Knightsbridge,  Oct.  2 6th. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

Your  note  afflicted  us,  and  others  too.  I have  long 
wished  to  be  allowed  to  see  something  of  you,  and  now  that 
you  would  be  kind  enough  to  permit  it  we  are  both  invalids, 
and  I in  London  only  for  two  or  three  days.  For  my  part 
however  I will  not  give  the  thing  up  and  shall  either  call  on 
you  or  write  to  you  again  in  a day  or  two.  Carlyle  was  here 
yesterday  evening,  growled  at  having  missed  you,  and  said 
more  in  your  praise  than  in  any  one’s  except  Cromwell  and  an 
American  backwoodsman  who  has  killed  thirty  or  forty  people 
with  a bowie  knife  and  since  run  away  to  Texas. 

I learn  from  Americans  who  were  also  here  that  a certain 
Wheeler  (known  to  you  I think  by  name)  is  dead : whether  he 
has  carried  your  dollars  with  him  and  paid  them  by  mistake  to 
Beelzebub  or  Orpheus  I know  not. 

For  the  moment  farewell. 

Believe  me  truly  yours,  John  Sterling1. 


1 Before  his  death  at  Ventnor  in  September,  1844,  Sterling  reviewed  the 
1842  volume  favourably  in  the  Quarterly , classing  my  father’s  poems 
“ among  the  richest  of  our  recent  literature.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1842  VOLUMES. 


It  is  long  since  we  have  had  so  good  a lyrist ; it  will  be  long  before  we 
have  his  superior.  “Godiva”  is  a noble  poem  that  will  tell  the  legend  a 
thousand  years...  “ Locksley  Hall ” and  “ The  Two  Voices”  are  meditative 
poems,  which  were  slowly  written  to  be  slowly  read.  “The  Talking  Oak,” 
though  a little  hurt  by  its  wit  and  ingenuity,  is  beautiful,  and  the  most  poetic 
of  the  volume.  “ Ulysses  ” belongs  to  a high  class  of  poetry,  destined  to  be 
the  highest,  and  to  be  more  cultivated  in  the  next  generation.  “CEnone” 
was  a sketch  of  the  same  kind. 

Emerson. 

Tunbridge  Wells  was  not  liked  by  my  grandmother, 
so  she  and  the  family  migrated  to  Boxley  not  far  from 
Maidstone  in  order  to  be  near  the  Lushingtons  at  Park 
House;  Edmund  Lushington,  the  accomplished  Greek  and 
German  scholar  and  Egyptologist,  having  married  Miss 
Cecilia  Tennyson.  The  park  round  the  house  is  described 
in  the  prologue  to  “The  Princess.”  My  father  had  a par- 
ticularly high  regard  not  only  for  Edmund  and  Franklin 
Lushington  but  also  for  their  brother  Harry,  and  would 
say,  “ Others  may  find  faults  in  a poem,  but  Harry  finds 
the  fault  and  tells  you  how  to  mend  it.”  He  is  one  of  the 
three1  friends  mentioned  in  the  poem  “ In  the  Garden  at 
Swainston.”  His  memory  was  surprising  and  his  criticism 
always  of  the  finest.  “ His  taste  was  perhaps  rendered 
more  exquisite  by  his  personal  anxiety  for  the  perfection 
and  success  of  works  which  could  scarce  have  interested 
him  more  if  they  had  been  his  own  composition.”  At 


1 Arthur  Hallam,  Henry  Lushington,  Sir  John  Simeon. 


1842]  SOJOURNINGS  IN  LONDON.  1 83 

Park  House  my  father  met  many  friends,  old  and  new; 
Monckton  Milnes,  Venables,  Chapman,  Savile  Morton, 
Lear,  and  William  Thomson  (now  Lord  Kelvin).  With 
one  of  these  friends,  or  more  generally  by  himself,  he 
would  take  long  walks  either  on  the  Pilgrim’s  Road,  or 
to  some  one  of  the  picturesque  villages  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

From  time  to  time  he  stayed  in  town  and  mingled 
with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  He  always  de- 
lighted in  the  “ central  roar  ” of  London.  Whenever  he 
and  I went  to  London,  one  of  the  first  things  we  did 
was  to  walk  to  the  Strand  and  Fleet  Street.  “ Instead 
of  the  stuccoed  houses  in  the  West  End,  this  is  the 
place  where  I should  like  to  live,”  he  would  say.  He 
was  also  fond  of  looking  at  London  from  the  bridges 
over  the  Thames,  and  of  going  into  St  Paul’s,  and 
into  the  Abbey.  One  day  in  1842  Fitzgerald  records 
a visit  to  St  Paul’s  with  him  when  he  said,  “ Merely  as 
an  inclosed  space  in  a huge  city  this  is  very  fine,”  and 
when  they  got  out  into  the  open,  in  the  midst  of  the 
“ central  roar,”  “ This  is  the  mind ; that  is  a mood  of  it.” 

He  writes,  “My  lodgings  are  the  last  house,  Norfolk 
Street,  Strand,  at  the  bottom  of  the  street  on  the  left ; 
the  name  is  Edwards  which  you  will  see  projecting  from 
the  door  on  a brass  plate.”  Generally  he  would  stay 
at  the  Temple  or  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields;  dining 
with  his  friends  at  The  Cock,  and  other  taverns1. 

1 Savile  Morton,  for  some  years  the  brilliant  Paris  correspondent  of  the 
Daily  News,  wrote  of  one  of  these  dinners  : u Thackeray  gave  the  dinner  — 
Tennyson,  Forster  (the  literary  critic  of  the  Examiner ),  Emerson  Tennant, 
M.P.,  Crowe  an  author,  and  Maclise  were  the  party.  Lever,  the  ballad 
and  Irish  story  man,  came  at  the  beginning,  and  told  Alfred  he  was  greatly 
delighted  to  meet  a brother-poet , the  cool  impudence  of  which  amused 
the  party  greatly,  at  Lever’s  expense.... The  largeness  of  Alfred’s  proportions, 
both  physical  and  poetical,  were  universally  the  theme  of  admiration. 
Maclise  admired  him  excessively,  and  fell  quite  in  love  with  him.”  ( From 
an  unpublished  letter  ( undated ) to  Mary  Brotherton,  author  of  “ Rosemary 
for  Remet?ibrance  ” and  “ Old  Acquaintance .”) 


184  LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

A perfect  dinner  was  a beef-steak,  a potato,  a cut  of 
cheese,  a pint  of  port,  and  afterwards  a pipe  (never  a 
cigar).  When  joked  with  by  his  friends  about  his  liking 
for  cold  salt  beef  and  new  potatoes,  he  would  answer 
humorously,  “All  fine-natured  men  know  what  is  good 
to  eat.”  Very  genial  evenings  they  were,  with  plenty 
of  anecdote  and  wit  and  “ thrust  and  parry  of  bright 
monostich.”  At  good  sayings  my  father  would  sit  laugh- 
ing away,  “ laughter  often  interrupted  by  fits  of  sadness.” 
He  would  take  off  the  voices  and  expressions  of  well- 
known  public  characters,  protesting  that  “ The  oddities 
and  angularities  of  great  men  should  never  be  hawked 
about,”  or  he  would  dramatically  give  parts  of  Shakespeare 
or  of  Moliere,  or  “ enact  with  grim  humour  Milton’s  ‘ So 
started  up  in  his  foul  shape  the  fiend,’  from  the  crouching 
of  the  toad  to  the  explosion1. 

He  used  also  to  do  the  sun  coming  out  from  a cloud,  and 
retiring  into  one  again,  with  a gradual  opening  and  shutting  of 
the  eyes,  and  with  a great  fluffing  up  of  his  hair  into  full  wig  and 
elevation  of  cravat  and  collar;  George  IV.  in  as  comical  and 
wonderful  a way.  ‘ The  plump  head-waiter  of  The  Cock,’  by 
Temple  Bar,  famous  for  chop  and  porter,  was  rather  offended 
when  told  of  the  poem  (‘Will  Waterproof’).  ‘ Had  Mr  Tenny- 
son dined  oftener  there,  he  would  not  have  minded  it  so  much,’ 
he  said.  I think  A.  T.’s  chief  dinner  resort  in  these  ante-laureate 
days  was  Bertolini’s  at  the  Newton’s  Head,  close  to  Leicester 
Square.  We  sometimes  called  it  Dirtolini’s,  but  not  seriously ; 
for  the  place  was  clean  as  well  as  very  cheap  and  the  cookery 
good  for  the  price.  Bertolini  himself,  who  came  to  take  the 
money  at  the  end  of  the  feast,  was  a grave  and  polite  man.  He 
retired  with  a fortune  I think2.” 

My  father  was  a member  of  the  Sterling  Club,  a 
literary  Society  of  those  days  named  in  Sterling’s  honour, 
where  he  met  many  of  his  old  fellow  “Apostles.”  He 

1 “ Depend  upon  it,”  my  father  said,  “ Milton  shot  up  into  some  grim 
Archangel,  Fitz.”  (1842.) 

2 MS  Note,  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


1842] 


VIEWS  ON  REFORM. 


185 

also  often  saw  Carlyle,  Rogers,  “ Barry  Cornwall,” 
Thackeray,  Dickens,  Forster,  Savage  Landor,  Maclise, 
Leigh  Hunt,  and  Tom  Campbell.  I have  heard  that 
he  always  showed  an  eager  interest  in  the  events  and 
in  the  great  scientific  discoveries  and  economic  inven- 
tions and  improvements  of  the  time1.  His  talk  largely 
touched  upon  politics 2,  philosophy  and  theology,  and  the 
new  speculations  rife  on  every  side.  Upon  the  projects 
of  reform,  or  the  great  movements  of  philanthropy  he 
reflected  much. 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming- 
years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a boy  when  first  he  leaves  his 
father’s  field. 

The  Chartist  and  Socialist  agitations  were  then  alarming 
the  country.  My  father  thought  they  should  be  met 
not  by  universal  imprisonment  and  repression,  but  by  a 
widespread  National  education,  by  more  of  a patriotic 
and  less  of  a party  spirit  in  the  Press,  by  partial 
adoption  of  Free  Trade  principles,  and  by  an  increased 
energy  and  sympathy  among  those  who  belonged  to 
the  different  forms  of  Christianity.  He  was  sometimes 
described  as  advancing  opposite  opinions  at  different 
times.  This  was  because  from  his  firm  sense  of  justice 
he  had  a dramatic  way  of  representing  an  opinion  adverse 
to  his  own  in  a favourable  light,  in  order  that  he  might 
give  it  the  most  generous  interpretation  possible. 

1 Alluding  to  one  such  improvement  he  said : u Before  the  Penny  Post 
a wretched  review  from  the  Continent  followed  me  all  over  England,  and  I 
had  to  pay  one  pound  eight  shillings  for  it.” 

2 I have  heard  him  speak  of  his  feelings  at  that  time  about  the  Afghan 
campaign : he  thought  that  we  ought  to  stand  no  trifling  in  Afghanistan ; 
and  that  the  English  Cabinet  was  neglectful  of  the  advice  of  Polonius : 
“ Beware  of  entrance  to  a quarrel,  but,  being  in,  bear’t  that  the  opposer 
may  beware  of  thee.”  Speaking  of  Canadian  affairs,  he  gloried  in  the 
work  done  by  Lord  Durham  and  in  the  form  of  Colonial  Government 
initiated  by  him  in  Canada. 


i86 


LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

These  indeed  were  years  rich  in  social  and  political 
movement : it  may  be  enough  to  name  Bright  and 
Cobden,  Carlyle,  Thackeray,  and  Dickens,  each  with  his 
exposure  of  abuses,  or  efforts  for  amendment.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  time  inspired  such  lines  as  the 
following : 

Ah,  tho’  the  times  when  some  new  thought  can  bud 
Are  but  as  poets’  seasons  when  they  flower, 

Yet  seas  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march, 

And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year, 
When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in  mounded  heaps, 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 

And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker  man 
Thro’  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

"TV*  *7Y*  'A'  07x'  VT  w W 

Fly,  happy  happy  sails,  and  bear  the  Press; 

Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross ; 

Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year1. 

Theology,  always  a deep  interest  to  him,  shared  in 
this  advance.  The  Oxford  movement  had  been  begun 
by  a band  of  saintly  and  devoted  churchmen,  and  the 
Vice-Chancellor  of  Oxford  with  the  heads  of  houses  had 
already  censured  the  author  of  Tract  No.  XC2.  Mean- 
while Maurice,  Kingsley  and  the  Cambridge  men 
were  striving  to  make  thought  more  tolerant,  and  to 
impress  all  men  with  a sense  of  brotherhood.  Both 
efforts  in  a few  years  effected  a mighty  change  in 

1 “The  Golden  Year”  was  first  published  in  1846  in  the  Poems  (4th  ed.). 

2 Published  February  1841. 


WORD-PORTRAIT  BY  CARLYLE. 


1842] 


187 


the  spirit  of  the  National  Church  by  broadening  its 
borders  and  deepening  its  spirituality. 

The  biographies  of  friends  and  acquaintances,  recently 
published,  are  full  of  allusions  to  my  father  at  this  period. 
Perhaps  the  most  life-like  portrait1  is  that  drawn  by 
Carlyle  for  Emerson  in  America. 


Alfred  is  one  of  the  few  British  and  foreign  figures  (a  not 
increasing  number  I think)  who  are  and  remain  beautiful  to 
me,  a true  human  soul,  or  some  authentic  approximation  thereto, 
to  whom  your  own  soul  can  say,  “ Brother ! ” However,  I doubt 
he  will  not  come  [to  see  me]  ; he  often  skips  me,  in  these  brief 
visits  to  town  ; skips  everybody,  indeed  ; being  a man  solitary  and 
sad,  as  certain  men  are,  dwelling  in  an  element  of  gloom,  carry- 
ing a bit  of  Chaos  about  him,  in  short,  which  he  is  manufacturing 

into  Cosmos He  had  his  breeding  at  Cambridge,  as  if  for 

the  Law  or  Church ; being  master  of  a small  annuity  on  his 
father’s  decease,  he  preferred  clubbing  with  his  mother  and 
some  sisters,  to  live  unpromoted  and  write  Poems.  In  this  way 
he  lives  still,  now  here,  now  there;  the  family  always  within 
reach  of  London,  never  in  it;  he  himself  making  rare  and  brief 
visits,  lodging  in  some  old  comrade’s  rooms.  I think  he  must 
be  under  forty,  not  much  under  it.  One  of  the  finest  looking 
men  in  the  world.  A great  shock  of  rough  dusky  dark  hair; 
bright,  laughing,  hazel  eyes ; massive  aquiline  face,  most  massive 
yet  most  delicate;  of  sallow  brown  complexion,  almost  Indian 
looking,  clothes  cynically  loose,  free-and-easy,  smokes  infinite 
tobacco.  His  voice  is  musical,  metallic,  fit  for  loud  laughter 
and  piercing  wail,  and  all  that  may  lie  between;  speech  and 
speculation  free  and  plenteous;  I do  not  meet  in  these  late 

1 On  Sept.  5th,  1840,  Carlyle  had  sketched  another  portrait  of  my  father 
for  his  brother  John : “ Some  weeks  ago,  one  night,  the  poet  Tennyson  and 
Matthew  Allen  were  discovered  here  sitting  smoking  in  the  garden.  Tenny- 
son had  been  here  before,  but  was  still  new  to  Jane,  — who  was  alone  for 
the  first  hour  or  two  of  it.  A fine,  large-featured,  dim-eyed,  bronze-coloured, 
shaggy-headed  man  is  Alfred ; dusty,  smoky,  free  and  easy ; who  swims, 
outwardly  and  inwardly,  with  great  composure  in  an  articulate  element  as 
of  tranquil  chaos  and  tobacco-smoke ; great  now  and  then  when  he  does 
emerge ; a most  restful,  brotherly,  solid-hearted  man.  Allen  looked  con- 
siderably older ; speculative,  hopeful,  earnest-frothy  as  from  the  beginning.” 
(See  for  Allen,  p.  220.) 


1 88  LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

decades  such  company  over  a pipe ! we  shall  see  what  he  will 
grow  to. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  also  gives  a characteristic  portrait : 

Three  of  the  autographs  which  I send  you  to-day  are  first- 
rate.  A Yankee  would  almost  give  a dollar  apiece  for  them. 
Entire  characteristic  letters  from  Pickwick,  Lytton  Bulwer  and 
Alfred  Tennyson;  the  last  the  greatest  genius  of  the  three, 
though  the  vulgar  public  have  not  as  yet  recognized  him  as 
such.  Get  his  poems  if  you  can,  and  read  the  “ Ulysses,”  “ Dora,” 
the  “Vision  of  Sin,”  and  you  will  find  that  we  do  not  overrate 
him.  Besides,  he  is  a very  handsome  man,  and  a noble-hearted 
one,  with  something  of  the  gypsy  in  his  appearance,  which  for 
me  is  perfectly  charming.  Babbie  never  saw  him,  unfortunately, 
or  perhaps  I should  say  fortunately,  for  she  must  have  fallen 
in  love  with  him  on  the  spot,  unless  she  be  made  absolutely  of 
ice;  and  then  men  of  genius  have  never  anything  to  keep  wives 
upon. 

Carlyle  did  not,  I believe,  become  intimate  with  my 
father  until  after  1842,  “ being  naturally  prejudiced  against 
one  whom  everyone  was  praising,  and  praising  for  a sort 
of  poetry  which  he  despised.  But  directly  he  saw  and 
heard  the  Man,  he  knew  there  was  a man  to  deal  with 
and  took  pains  to  cultivate  him ; assiduous  in  exhorting 
him  to  leave  Verse  and  Rhyme,  and  to  apply  his  genius 
to  Prose1.”  Indeed  he  told  him  then  that  he  was  “a 
life-guardsman  spoilt  by  making  poetry.” 

When  the  1842  volumes  were  published  the  literary 
world  in  London  accepted  them  at  once,  and  Milnes2  and 
Sterling  led  the  chorus  of  favourable  reviews. 

My  father’s  comprehension  of  human  life  had  grown  : 
and  the  new  poems  dealt  with  an  extraordinarily  wide 
range  of  subjects,  chivalry,  duty,  reverence,  self-control, 
human  passion,  human  love,  the  love  of  country,  science, 

1 MS  Note,  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

2 Westminster  Review,  October,  1842. 


1842] 


THE  ENGLISH  IDYLS. 


189 


philosophy,  simple  faith  and  the  many  complex  moods 
of  the  religious  nature;  whilst  they  were  free  from  the 
brooding  self-absorption  into  which  modern  poetry  is 
liable  to  lapse,  and  from  what  Arthur  Hallam  called 
“ the  habit  of  seeking  relief  in  idiosyncrasies.” 

It  was  the  heart  of  England  even  more  than  her  imagination 
that  he  made  his  own.  It  was  the  Humanities  and  the  truths 
underlying  them  that  he  sang,  and  he  so  sang  them  that  any 
deep-hearted  reader  was  made  to  feel  through  his  far-reaching 
thought  that  those  Humanities  are  spiritual  things,  and  that  to 
touch  them  is  to  touch  the  garment  of  the  Divine.  Those  who 
confer  so  deep  a benefit  cannot  but  be  remembered.  The  Heroic 
is  not  greatly  appreciated  in  these  days ; but  on  this  occasion 
the  challenge  met  with  a response  \ 

With  a selection  from  the  early  poems,  some  of  them 
almost  rewritten,  appeared  a number  of  English  Idyls 
and  Eclogues,  pictures  of  English  home  and  country  life, 
quite  original  in  their  form.  Upon  the  sacredness  of 
home  life  he  would  maintain  that  the  stability  and 
greatness  of  a nation  largely  depend ; and  one  of  the 
secrets  of  his  power  over  mankind  was  his  true  joy 
in  the  family  duties  and  affections.  Among  these 
new  poems  were  “ The  Gardener’s  Daughter,”  “ Dora,” 
“ Audley  Court,”  “Walking  to  the  Mail,”  “The 
Talking  Oak,”  “ Locksley  Hall,”  “ Godiva,”  « Edward 
Gray,”  “ Lady  Clare,”  “ The  Lord  of  Burleigh,”  “ Will 
Waterproof,”  and  the  conclusion  of  “ The  May  Queen.” 
Then  there  were  the  more  general  poems,  “ Morte 
d’Arthur,”  “ St  Simeon  Stylites,”  “ Love  and  Duty,” 
“ Ulysses,”  “ The  Two  Voices,”  “ The  Day-Dream2,  ” 
“ Amphion,”  “St  Agnes’  Eve,”  “Sir  Galahad,”  “Sir 

1 Aubrey  de  Vere  (in  letter  to  me). 

2 The  Prologue  and  Epilogue  were  added  after  1835,  when  we  first  heard 
it  in  Cumberland ; I suppose  for  the  same  reason  that  caused  the  Prologue 
of  the  u Morte  d’Arthur,”  giving  a reason  for  telling  an  old-world  tale.  MS 
Note,  E.  F.  G. 

In  1842  he  had  eight  of  the  blank  verse  poems  printed  for  his  private  use, 


LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES. 


190 

Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere,”  “ A Farewell,”  “ The 
Beggar  Maid,”  “ The  Vision  of  Sin,”  “ Move  east- 
ward, happy  Earth,”  “ Break,  Break  ” (made  in  a Lincoln- 
shire lane  at  5 o’clock  in  the  morning  between  blossom- 
ing hedges),  “ The  Poet’s  Song,”  and  his  three  political 
poems. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  these  volumes  were 
also  welcomed  ; Hawthorne,  Margaret  Fuller,  Emerson, 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  were  notably  enthusiastic. 

The  popular  German  poet  Ferdinand  Freiligrath 
writes  to  Mary  Howitt  from  Frankfort,  Oct.  1842  : “ Ten- 
nyson is  indeed  a true  poet,  though  perhaps  sometimes 
a little  too  transcendental.  ‘ Mariana  in  the  Moated 
Grange,’  and  some  other  of  his  poems  are  superb ; and 
breathe  such  a sweet  and  dreamy  melancholy  that  I 
cannot  cease  to  read  and  admire  them1.” 

The  most  remarkable  review  of  these  volumes  was 
by  Spedding  in  the  Edinburgh  for  April  1843  (reprinted 
in  Reviews  and  Discussions ),  from  which  I subjoin  ex- 
tracts, as  these  give  accurately  the  growth  of  his  friend’s 
mind. 

The  decade  during  which  Mr  Tennyson  has  remained  silent 
has  wrought  a great  improvement.  The  handling  in  his  later 
pieces  is  much  lighter  and  freer ; the  interest  deeper  and  purer ; 
there  is  more  humanity  with  less  image  and  drapery ; a closer 
adherence  to  truth ; a greater  reliance  for  effect  upon  the  sim- 
plicity of  Nature.  Moral  and  spiritual  traits  of  character  are 
more  dwelt  upon,  in  place  of  external  scenery  and  circumstance. 
He  addresses  himself  more  to  the  heart  and  less  to  the  ear  and 
eye.  This  change  which  is  felt  in  its  results  throughout  the 
second  volume,  may  in  the  latter  half  of  the  first  be  traced  in 


because  he  always  liked  to  see  his  poems  in  print  some  months  and  some- 
times some  years  before  publication,  “ for,11  as  he  said,  u poetry  looks  better, 
more  convincing,  in  print.”  This  little  volume  was  entitled  Morte  cV Arthur ; 
Dora , and  other  Idyls. 

2 From  private  letter  lent  by  Miss  Howitt. 


1842]  “THE  MILLERS  DAUGHTER.”  I 9 1 

its  process.  The  poems  originally  published  in  1832  are  many 
of  them  largely  altered ; generally  with  great  judgment,  and 
always  with  a view  to  strip  off  redundancies,  to  make  the  ex- 
pression simpler  and  clearer,  to  substitute  thought  for  imagery 
and  substance  for  shadow.  “ The  Lady  of  Shalott,”  for  instance, 
is  stripped  of  all  her  finery ; her  pearl  garland,  her  velvet  bed, 
her  royal  apparel  and  her  “blinding  diamond  bright,”  are  all 
gone ; and  certainly  in  the  simple  white  robe  which  she  now 
wears,  her  beauty  shows  to  much  greater  advantage. 

“ The  Miller’s  Daughter,”  again,  is  much  enriched  by  the 
introduction  of  the  mother  of  the  lover;  and  the  following 
beautiful  stanzas  (which  many  people,  however,  will  be  ill 
satisfied  to  miss)  are  displaced  to  make  room  for  beauty  of  a 
much  higher  order : 

Remember  you  the  clear  moonlight 
That  whiten’d  all  the  eastern  ridge, 

When  o’er  the  water  dancing  white 
I stepp’d  upon  the  old  mill  bridge  ? 

I heard  you  whisper  from  above, 

A lute-toned  whisper,  “ I am  here ! ” 

I murmur’d  “ Speak  again,  my  love, 

The  stream  is  loud  : I cannot  hear ! ” 

I heard,  as  I have  seem’d  to  hear, 

When  all  the  under-air  was  still, 

The  low  voice  of  the  glad  New  Year 
Call  to  the  freshly-flower’d  hill. 

I heard,  as  I have  often  heard, 

The  nightingale  in  leafy  woods 
Call  to  its  mate  when  nothing  stirr’d 
To  left  or  right  but  falling  floods. 

These,  we  observe,  are  away  ; and  the  following  graceful  and 
tender  picture,  full  of  the  spirit  of  English  rural  life,  appears  in 
their  place.  (The  late  squire’s  son,  we  should  premise,  is  bent 
on  marrying  the  daughter  of  the  wealthy  miller :) 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 
To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 


192 


LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

And  rose,  and,  with  a silent  grace 

Approaching,  press’d  you  heart  to  heart. 

Vol.  1.  p.  109. 

Mr  Spedding  goes  on  to  say  that  in  the  song  of 
“The  Lotos-Eaters,”  which  “ hardly  admitted  of  improve- 
ment,” my  father  had  added  “some  touches  of  deeper 
significance,  indicating  the  first  effects  of  the  physical 
disease  upon  the  moral  and  intellectual  nature: 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 

* * * * * * * 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot  stars.” 

Vol.  1.  p.  182. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  poem  there  is  found  an  alteration  of 
a like  kind  : where  for  the  flow  of  triumphant  enjoyment,  in 
the  contemplation  of  merely  sensual  ease  and  luxurious  repose, 
with  which  it  originally  closed,  a higher  strain  is  substituted, 
which  is  meant  apparently  to  show  the  effect  of  lotos-eating 
upon  the  religious  feelings.  The  gods  of  the  Lotos-eaters,  it 
is  worth  knowing,  are  altogether  Lucretian. 

“The  May  Queen1”  too  was  made  “more  deeply 
and  tragically  interesting  ” by  the  third  and  concluding 
part.  But  the  four  poems,  in  which  “ the  work  is  at  the 
highest  level,”  and  from  which  we  may  gather  some 
hints  concerning  “ his  moral  theory  of  life  and  its  issues 
and  of  that  which  constitutes  a sound  condition  of  the 
soul,”  are  “ The  Palace  of  Art,”  the  dramatic  monologue 
of  “St  Simeon  Stylites,”  “The  Two  Voices,”  and  “The 
Vision  of  Sin.” 

“ The  Palace  of  Art  ” represents  allegorically  the  condition 
of  a mind  which,  in  the  love  of  beauty,  and  the  triumphant 
consciousness  of  knowledge,  and  intellectual  supremacy,  in  the 
intense  enjoyment  of  its  own  power  and  glory,  has  lost  sight 

a“The  May  Queen”  is  all  Lincolnshire  inland,  as  “ Locksley  Hall”  its 
sea-board.  MS  Note,  E.  F.  G. 


1842]  “the  two  voices.”  i 93 

of  its  relation  to  man  and  God.  * * * As  “The  Palace  of 
Art”  represents  the  pride  of  voluptuous  enjoyment  in  its 
noblest  form,  the  “ St  Simeon  Stylites  ” represents  the  pride 
of  asceticism  in  its  basest  \ 

Of  “The  Two  Voices2”  Spedding  says: 

In  “The  Two  Voices”  we  have  a history  of  the  agitations, 
the  suggestions  and  counter-suggestions  of  a mind  sunk  in 
hopeless  despondency,  and  meditating  self-destruction  ; together 
with  the  manner  of  its  recovery  to  a more  healthy  condition. . . . 
Others  would  have  been  content  to  give  the  bad  voice  the 
worst  of  the  argument ; but,  unhappily,  all  moral  reasoning 
must  ultimately  rest  on  the  internal  evidence  of  the  moral 
sense ; and  where  this  is  disordered,  the  most  unquestionable 
logic  can  conclude  nothing,  because  it  is  the  first  principles 
which  are  at  issue;  the  major  is  not  admitted.  Mr  Tennyson’s 
treatment  of  the  case  is  more  scientific. ...  “ The  Vision  of 

Sin  ” touches  upon  a more  awful  subject  than  any  of  these ; 
the  end,  here  and  hereafter,  of  the  merely  sensual  man. 

In  conclusion  Spedding  adds,  that  these  poems  show 
that  the  author’s  art  is  no  trick  of  these  versifying  times, 
born  of  a superficial  sensibility  to  beauty  and  a turn  for 
setting  to  music  the  current  doctrines  and  fashionable 
feelings  of  the  day;  but  a genuine  growth  of  nature, 
having  its  root  deep  in  the  pensive  heart,  a heart  accus- 
tomed to  meditate  earnestly  and  feel  truly  upon  the 
prime  duties  and  interests  of  man. 

Some  notes  on  the  second  volume  have  been  left 
me  by  my  father,  the  first  of  which  is  on  the  “ Morte 
d’Arthur.”  This  particular  note  I wrote  down  from  what 

1 This  is  one  of  the  poems  A.  T.  would  read  with  grotesque  grimness, 
especially  such  passages  as  “ coughs,  aches,  stitches,”  etc.,  laughing  aloud  at 
times.  MS  Note,  E.  F.  G. 

2 My  father  told  me,  “When  I wrote  ‘The  Two  Voices’  I was  so 
utterly  miserable,  a burden  to  myself  and  to  my  family,  that  I said,  ‘ Is  life 
worth  anything?’  and  now  that  I am  old,  I fear  that  I shall  only  live  a year 
or  two,  for  I have  work  still  to  do.”  The  last  part,  E.  F.  G.  writes,  was 
probably  made  in  the  fields  about  Dulwich. 


t.  i. 


!3 


194  LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

he  said ; but  he  gave  it  his  approval,  as  expressing  his 
own  view  correctly. 

“ How  much  of  history  we  have  in  the  story  of  Arthur 
is  doubtful.  Let  not  my  readers  press  too  hardly  on 
details  whether  for  history  or  for  allegory.  Some  think 
that  King  Arthur  may  be  taken  to  typify  conscience.  He 
is  anyhow  meant  to  be  a man  who  spent  himself  in  the 
cause  of  honour,  duty  and  self-sacrifice,  who  felt  and 
aspired  with  his  nobler  knights,  though  with  a stronger 
and  a clearer  conscience  than  any  of  them,  ‘ reverencing 
his  conscience  as  his  king.’  ‘ There  was  no  such  perfect 
man  since  Adam  ’ as  an  old  writer  says.  ‘ Major  prae- 
teritis  majorque  futuris  Regibus.’  ” 

Edward  Fitzgerald  writes : 

The  “Morte  d’Arthur”  when  read  to  us  from  manuscript 
in  1835  had  no  introduction  or  epilogue;  which  was  added  to 
anticipate  or  excuse  the  “ faint  Homeric  echoes,”  etc.  (as  in  the 
“ Day-Dream  ”),  to  give  a reason  for  telling  an  old-world  tale. 

Again : 

Mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and  aes,  deep-chested  music, 
this  is  something  as  A.  T.  reads,  with  a broad  north  country 
vowel,  except  the  u in  such  words  as  “mute,”  “brute,”  which 
he  pronounces  like  the  thin  French  “u.”  His  voice,  very 
deep  and  deep-chested,  but  rather  murmuring  than  mouthing, 
like  the  sound  of  a far  sea  or  of  a pine-wood,  I remember 
greatly  struck  Carlyle  when  he  first  came  to  know  him.  There 
was  no  declamatory  showing  off  in  A.  T.’s  recitation  of  his 
verse ; sometimes  broken  with  a laugh,  or  a burlesque  twist  of 
voice,  when  something  struck  him  as  quaint  or  grim.  Some- 
times Spedding  would  read  the  poems  to  us ; A.  T.  once  told 
him  he  seemed  to  read  too  much  as  if  bees  were  about  his 
mouth,  all  in  good  humour  as  in  sincerity.  Of  the  Chivalry 
Romances  he  said  to  me,  “ I could  not  read  ‘ Palmerin  of 
England  ’ nor  ‘ Amadis,’  nor  any  other  of  those  Romances 
through.  The  ‘Morte  d’Arthur ’ is  much  the  best:  there  are 
very  fine  things  in  it,  but  all  strung  together  without  Art1.” 


1 MS  Note. 


1842]  “ LOCKSLEY  HALL.”  1 95 

In  “ Locksley  Hall  ” my  father  annotates  the  line 
“ Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing 
grooves  of  change.”  “ When  I went  by  the  first  train 
from  Liverpool  to  Manchester  (1830),  I thought  that  the 
wheels  ran  in  a groove.  It  was  a black  night  and  there 
was  such  a vast  crowd  round  the  train  at  the  station  that 
we  could  not  see  the  wheels.  Then  I made  this  line.”  — 
Further:  ‘“Locksley  Hall’  is  an  imaginary  place  (tho’ 
the  coast  is  Lincolnshire)  and  the  hero  is  imaginary. 
The  whole  poem  represents  young  life,  its  good  side,  its 
deficiencies,  and  its  yearnings.  Mr  Hallam  said  to  me 
that  the  English  people  liked  verse  in  Trochaics,  so  I 
wrote  the  poem  in  this  metre.” 

In  the  first  unpublished  edition  of  “ Locksley  Hall,” 
after  “ knots  of  Paradise ,”  came  the  following  couplet, 
which  was  omitted  lest  the  description  should  be  too 
long: 

All  about  a summer  ocean,  leagues  on  leagues  of 
golden  calm, 

And  within  melodious  waters  rolling  round  the  knolls 
of  palm. 

I remember  my  father  saying  that  Sir  William 
Jones’  prose  translation  of  the  Moallakat , the  seven 
Arabic  poems  (which  are  a selection  from  the  work  of 
pre-Mahommedan  poets)  hanging  up  in  the  temple  of 
Mecca,  gave  him  the  idea  of  the  poem. 

When  these  volumes  were  published  my  father  was 
often  in  the  habit  of  breakfasting  with  Rogers,  for 
whom  he  had  a real  affection,  but  who  “ rather  bored 
him  with  attentions,  very  generous  and  amiable  from 
the  old  poet.”  Rogers  would  praise  “ Locksley  Hall,” 
and  would  say  “ Shakespeare  could  not  have  done  it 
better.”  “ I should  have  thought,”  observed  my  father, 
“that  such  a poem  as  ‘ Dora’  was  more  in  Rogers’  line: 


13—2 


196  LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

perhaps  it  was  too  much  in  his  line.  ‘ Dora,’  being 
the  tale  of  a nobly  simple  country  girl,  had  to  be  told  in 
the  simplest  possible  poetical  language,  and  therefore 
was  one  of  the  poems  which  gave  most  trouble.” 
“ Ulysses,”  my  father  said,  “ was  written  soon  after 
Arthur  Hallam’s  death,  and  gave  my  feeling  about  the 
need  of  going  forward,  and  braving  the  struggle  of  life 
perhaps  more  simply  than  anything  in  ‘In  Memoriam.’” 

My  father’s  note  on  “Audley  Court  ” runs  thus : 

“ This  poem  was  partially  suggested  by  Abbey  Park 
at  Torquay.  Torquay  was  in  old  days  the  loveliest 
sea  village  in  England  and  now  is  a town.  In  those 
old  days  I,  coming  down  from  the  hill  over  Torquay, 
saw  a star  of  phosphorescence  made  by  the  buoy  ap- 
pearing and  disappearing  in  the  dark  sea,  and  wrote 
these  lines. 


But  ere  the  night  we  rose 
And  saunter’d  home  beneath  a moon,  that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain’d  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach’d 
The  limit  of  the  hills ; and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming  quay, 

The  town  was  hush’d  beneath  us:  lower  down 
The  bay  was  oily  calm ; the  harbour-buoy, 

Sole  star  of  phosphorescence  in  the  calm, 

With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart.” 

However  he  never  cared  greatly  for  this  sea  on  the 
south  coast  of  England,  “ not  a grand  sea,”  he  would 
say,  “ only  an  angry  curt  sea.  It  seems  to  shriek  as 
it  recoils  with  the  pebbles  along  the  shore ; the  finest 
seas  I have  ever  seen  are  at  Valencia,  Mablethorpe  and 
in  (West)  Cornwall.  At  Valencia  the  sea  was  grand, 
without  any  wind  blowing  and  seemingly  without  a wave  : 


1842]  “THE  GARDENER’S  DAUGHTER.”  1 97 

but  with  the  momentum  of  the  Atlantic  behind,  it  dashes 
up  into  foam,  blue  diamonds  it  looks  like,  all  along  the 
rocks,  like  ghosts  playing  at  hide  and  seek.  When 
I was  in  Cornwall  it  had  blown  a storm  of  wind  and 
rain  for  days,  and  all  of  a sudden  fell  into  perfect  calm  ; 
I was  a little  inland  of  the  cliffs:  when,  after  a space  of 
perfect  silence,  a long  roll  of  thunder,  from  some  wave 
rushing  into  a cavern  I suppose,  came  up  from  the 
distance,  and  died  away.  I never  felt  silence  like  that  V’ 
The  seas  at  Mablethorpe  he  would  describe  as  “ in- 
terminable waves  rolling  along  interminable  shores  of 
sand.” 

In  working  at  “The  Gardener’s  Daughter  ” he  said: 
“ The  centre  of  the  poem,  that  passage  describing  the 
girl,  must  be  full  and  rich.  The  poem  is  so,  to  a fault, 
especially  the  descriptions  of  nature,  for  the  lover  is  an 
artist,  but,  this  being  so,  the  central  picture  must  hold 
its  place. 

One  arm  aloft  — 

Gown’d  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape — - 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 

A single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour’d  on  one  side : the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist  — 

Ah,  happy  shade  — and  still  went  wavering  down, 
But,  ere  it  touch’d  a foot,  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 

And  mix’d  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground ! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  sunn’d 
Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe  bloom, 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.” 


1 MS  Note  by  E.  F.  G. 


1 98  LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

I remember  too  my  father’s  telling  me  that  Fitz- 
gerald had  said  that  the  autumn  landscape,  which  in  the 
first  edition  was  described  in  the  lines  beginning  “ Her 
beauty  grew,”  was  taken  from  a background  of  a Titian 
(Lord  Ellesmere’s  Ages  of  Man);  and  that  perhaps  in 
consequence  they  had  been  omitted.  They  ran  thus : 

Her  beauty  grew:  till  drawn  in  narrowing  arcs 
The  southing  Autumn  touc/id  with  sallower  gleams 
The  granges  on  the  fallows.  At  that  time, 

Tired  of  the  noisy  town  I wander’d  there ; 

The  bell  toll’d  four;  and  by  the  time  I reach’d 
The  Wicket-gate,  I found  her  by  herself. 

The  correction  of  the  proofs  of  this  poem  and  of  this  volume 
took  place  in  Spedding’s  chambers  at  60  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields, 
in  the  forepart  of  1842.  The  poems  to  be  printed  were  nearly 
all,  I think  all,  in  a foolscap  folio  parchment-bound  blank  book 
such  as  accounts  are  kept  in  (only  not  ruled),  and  which  I used 
to  call  “ The  Butcher’s  Book.”  The  poems  were  written  in 
A.  T.’s  very  fine  hand  (he  once  said,  not  thinking  of  himself, 
that  great  men  generally  wrote  “ terse  ” hands)  toward  one  side 
of  the  large  page ; the  unoccupied  edges  and  corners  being  often 
stript  down  for  pipe-lights,  taking  care  to  save  the  MS,  as  A.  T. 
once  seriously  observed.  The  pages  of  MS  from  the  Butcher’s 
Book  were  one  by  one  torn  out  for  the  printer,  and,  when 
returned  with  the  proofs,  were  put  in  the  fire.  I reserved  two 
or  three  of  the  leaves;  and  gave  them  to  the  Library  of  Trinity 
College  (Cambridge1). 

I insert  here  an  unpublished  poem  which  was  origi- 
nally intended  as  a prologue  to  “ The  Gardener’s  Daugh- 
ter ” and  was  called  “ The  Ante-Chamber.”  My  father 
wished  it  never  to  be  printed  in  front  of  “The  Gardener’s 
Daughter  ” because  this  is  already  full  enough.  It  is 
however  too  good  to  be  lost.  The  portrait  in  “ The 


1 E.  F.  G.,  MS  notes  on  A.  T. 


1842]  “the  ante-chamber.”  i 99 

Ante-Chamber  ” might  be  himself  at  the  period,  — so  his 
friends  say,  — but  that  was  by  no  means  his  intention1. 


The  Ante-Chamber  * ( Unpublished, .) 

That  is  his  portrait  painted  by  himself. 

Look  on  those  manly  curls  so  glossy  dark, 

Those  thoughtful  furrows  in  the  swarthy  cheek; 
Admire  that  stalwart  shape,  those  ample  brows, 

And  that  large  table  of  the  breast  dispread, 
Between  low  shoulders ; how  demure  a smile, 

How  full  of  wisest  humour  and  of  love, 

With  some  half-consciousness  of  inward  power, 
Sleeps  round  those  quiet  lips;  not  quite  a smile; 
And  look  you  what  an  arch  the  brain  has  built 
Above  the  ear!  and  what  a settled  mind, 

Mature,  harbour’d  from  change,  contemplative, 
Tempers  the  peaceful  light  of  hazel  eyes, 

Observing  all  things.  This  is  he  I loved, 

This  is  the  man  of  whom  you  heard  me  speak. 

My  fancy  was  the  more  luxurious, 

But  his  was  minted  in  a deeper  mould, 

And  took  in  more  of  Nature  than  mine  own: 

Nor  proved  I such  delight  as  he,  to  mark 
The  humours  of  the  polling  and  the  wake, 

The  hubbub  of  the  market  and  the  booths : 

How  this  one  smiled,  that  other  waved  his  arms, 
These  careful  and  those  candid  brows,  how  each  — 
Down  to  his  slightest  turns  and  attitudes  — 

Was  something  that  another  could  not  be, 

How  every  brake  and  flower  spread  and  rose, 

A various  world  ! which  he  compell’d  once  more 
Thro’  his  own  nature,  with  well  mingled  hues, 


1 Samuel  Laurence  painted  the  earliest  portrait  of  my  father  about  1838. 
* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 


200  LONDON  LIFE  AND  THE  1 842  VOLUMES.  [l842 

Into  another  shape,  born  of  the  first, 

As  beautiful,  but  yet  another  world. 

All  this  so  stirr’d  him  in  his  hour  of  joy, 

Mix’d  with  the  phantom  of  his  coming  fame, 

That  once  he  spake : “ I lift  the  eyes  of  thought, 

I look  thro’  all  my  glimmering  life,  I see 
At  the  end,  as  ’twere  athwart  a colour’d  cloud, 

O’er  the  bow’d  shoulder  of  a bland  old  Age, 

The  face  of  placid  Death.”  Long,  Eustace,  long 
May  my  strong  wish,  transgressing  the  low  bound 
Of  mortal  hope,  act  on  Eternity 
To  keep  thee  here  amongst  us!  Yet  he  lives; 

His  and  my  friendship  have  not  suffer’d  loss, 

His  fame  is  equal  to  his  years : his  praise 
Is  neither  overdealt,  nor  idly  won. 

Step  thro’  these  doors,  and  I will  show  to  you 
Another  countenance,  one  yet  more  dear, 

More  dear,  for  what  is  lost  is  made  more  dear; 

“ More  dear  ” I will  not  say,  but  rather  bless 
The  All-perfect  Framer,  Him,  who  made  the  heart, 
Forethinking  its  twinfold  necessity, 

Thro’  one  whole  life  an  overflowing  urn, 

Capacious  both  of  Friendship  and  of  Love. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

REMINISCENCES  OF  TENNYSON  (about  1842). 

[At  this  time  there  seems  to  have  been  an  almost  total  cessation  of  corre- 
spondence between  my  father  and  his  intimate  friends ; and  I accord- 
ingly asked  Edmund  Lushington,  the  present  Dean  of  Westminster,  and 
Aubrey  de  Vere  to  give  me  some  reminiscences  of  those  days.] 

Edmund  Lushington  writes : 

During  my  first  two  years  at  Cambridge  I had  no  acquaintance 
with  A.  T. ; the  first  occasion  I can  remember  of  knowing 
him  by  sight  was  when  Arthur  Hallam  read  in  the  College 
Chapel  his  essay  which  gained  the  first  declamation  prize.  The 
place  where  the  reader  stood  was  slightly  raised  above  the  aisle 
of  the  chapel;  A.  T.  sat  on  the  bench  just  below,  listening  intently 
to  the  spoken  words. 

At  this  time,  and  indeed  for  several  years  later,  copies  of  nu- 
merous poems  of  his  were  widely  circulated  about  Cambridge  in 
MS,  and  I remember  one  debate  in  a Society  called  the  “ Fifty,” 
on  the  rank  to  which  his  poetry  was  entitled,  in  the  course  of 
which  numerous  passages  were  quoted  from  poems  as  yet  not 
publicly  known — “The  Gardener’s  Daughter”  in  particular. 

I believe  the  first  time  he  visited  me  in  my  own  house  was 
in  the  summer  of  1840  when  he  came  to  stay  a few  days.  He 
was  then  habitually  residing  with  his  mother  and  sisters  at 
Tunbridge  Wells,  where,  beautiful  as  the  neighbourhood  was, 
the  site  was  found  not  healthy  for  all  of  the  family,  and  they 
were  wishing  to  meet  with  some  other  place  to  settle  in.  A day 
or  two  later  I went  over  with  him  to  pay  a short  visit  to  his 
mother’s  house  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  where  among  other  nota- 
bilities we  saw  an  old  lady  famous  for  cherishing  memories  of 


201 


202  REMINISCENCES  OF  TENNYSON  IN  EARLY  DAYS.  [l842 


the  great  Dr  Samuel  Johnson,  whose  likeness  graced  an  ex- 
pansive medallion  which  she  wore  about  her  neck,  Miss  L.1 
Not  long  after  this  visit  he  came  over  with  his  mother  and 
two  younger  sisters  to  stay  some  days  at  Park  House,  which 
they  partly  spent  in  looking  round  the  neighbouring  country  at 
any  such  houses  as  might  appear  to  be  suitable  for  a settled 
residence  in  preference  to  Tunbridge  Wells. 

They  eventually  settled  before  long  upon  engaging  a house  be- 
longing to  Colonel  Best  in  Boxley  Parish,  to  which  they  removed 
before  the  winter  of  1841-42.  The  house  was  nearly  two  miles  by 
the  road,  rather  less  by  the  fields,  from  our  residence  at  Park 
H ouse,  which  is  nearer  Maidstone.  Early  in  October  we  drove 
up  in  an  open  phaeton  to  London  by  the  old  coach-road  which 
knew  no  railways  in  that  time.  Whether  A.  T.  went  up  with 
us  I am  not  sure : at  any  rate  the  next  day  he  was  in  London 
and  came  to  take  leave  of  us  at  the  station  where  we  left  by 
train  for  the  north.  I remember  how  some  one  out  of  a crowd 
of  lookers  on,  just  before  the  train  was  starting,  after  a long  gaze 
at  his  dark  features  uttered  an  emphatic  “ foreign.” 

At  Xmas  1841  I went  for  a few  days’  holiday  from  Glasgow 
to  Kent  and  spent  the  time  mostly  at  Boxley,  where  A.  T.  was 
now  settled  with  his  mother  and  sisters.  We  had  sometimes 
dance  and  song  in  the  evening,  where,  tho’  no  one  spoke  of  it, 
assuredly  many  a heart  was  filled  “ with  an  awful  sense  of  one 
mute  Shadow  watching  all,”  as  his  own  undying  words  record 
of  an  earlier  occasion.  In  the  meantime  the  number  of  the 
memorial  poems  had  rapidly  increased  since  I had  seen  the 
poet,  his  book  containing  many  that  were  new  to  me.  Some 
I heard  him  repeat  before  I had  seen  them  in  writing,  others 
I learnt  to  know  first  from  the  book  itself  which  he  kindly 
allowed  me  to  look  through  without  stint.  I remember  one 
particular  night  when  we  were  sitting  up  together  late  in  his 
bedroom.  He  began  to  recite  the  poem  that  stands  sixth  in  “ In 
Memoriam,”  “ One  writes,  that  ‘ Other  friends  remain,’  ” and  I 
do  not  know  that  the  deep  melodious  thunder  of  his  voice  with 
all  its  overwhelming  pathos,  often  and  often  as  I have  heard  it, 
ever  imprest  me  more  profoundly.  On  one  other  occasion  he 

1 She  observed  that  Dr  Johnson  “ often  stirred  his  lemonade  with  his 
finger  and  that  often  dirty.”  My  father  was  very  angry  with  her  for  relating 
such  a story  about  a great  man,  and  said,  “ The  dirt  is  in  her  own  heart.” 


1842] 


MARRIAGE  OF  CECILIA  TENNYSON. 


203 


came  and  showed  me  a poem  he  had  just  composed,  saying  he 
liked  it  better  than  most  he  had  done  lately,  this  was  No.  li., 
“ Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead.” 

He  was  present  on  July  6th,  1842,  at  a festival  of  the  Maid- 
stone Mechanics’  Institute  held  in  our  Park,  of  which  he  has 
introduced  a lively  description  in  the  beginning  of  “ The 
Princess.” 

In  the  course  of  that  summer  appeared  the  collection  of  his 
poems  published  in  two  vols. ; the  first  contains,  with  some 
exceptions,  the  poems  published  under  the  title  Poems , chiefly 
Lyrical , in  1830,  and  as  a second  division,  with  various  changes, 
those  which  first  appeared  in  1832.  The  second  volume  had 
all  new  poems,  already  known  to  many  in  private  circulation, 
but  not  as  yet  openly  given  to  the  world. 

He  went  with  me  once  or  twice  to  London  to  make  arrange- 
ments such  as  are  required  by  the  law  with  reference  to  the 
marriage  of  his  youngest  sister  Cecilia.  The  marriage  ceremony 
was  performed  by  his  elder  brother,  the  Rev.  Charles  Tennyson 
Turner,  who  had  come  to  spend  some  time  with  his  mother  and 
with  whom  I then  first  became  acquainted. 

* * * * * * 

In  the  hottest  part  of  the  summer  (1845)  A.  T.  had  gone 
down  to  Eastbourne,  and  was  lodging  in  one  of  two  or  three 
cottages  prettily  grouped  together,  bearing  the  well-deserved 
name  of  Mount  Pleasant.  A little  garden  lay  in  front  of  the 
cottages,  beyond  that  a cornfield  extended  some  way  till  it  was 
stopt  by  a path  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  which  overlooked  the 
sea,  and  continued  its  course  on  to  Holywell.  Mount  Pleasant 
and  all  in  front  of  it  has  now  vanished  through  the  encroachment 
of  the  sea.  Its  last  vestige  I saw  many  years  since  as  a brick 
fragment  in  the  yard  of  a grand  new  hotel  built  just  above  the 
parade  to  which  the  present  sea-line  reaches.  I went  down  there 
to  see  him  and  remained  a few  days.  He  had  then  completed 
many  of  the  cantos  in  “ In  Memoriam  ” and  was  engaged  on 
“The  Princess,”  of  which  I had  heard  nothing  before.  He  read 
'or  showed  me  the  first  part,  beyond  which  it  had  then  hardly 
advanced.  He  said  to  me,  “ I have  brought  in  your  marriage 
at  the  end  of  ‘ In  Memoriam,’  ” and  then  showed  me  those  poems 
of  “ In  Memoriam  ” which  were  finished  and  which  were  a per- 
fectly novel  surprise  to  me, 


204  REMINISCENCES  OF  TENNYSON  IN  EARLY  DAYS.  [l842 

The  Dean  of  Westminster  writes: 

In  1841  and  1842  I paid  two  visits  in  the  month  of  August 
to  Park  House  near  Maidstone,  the  property  of  your  father’s 
brother-in-law  Edmund  Lushington,  who  in  those  days  made 
it  his  southern  residence  during  the  many  months  of  the 
long  vacation  that  set  him  free  from  his  laborious  work  in 
Scotland.  I found  there  not  only  a bright,  charming  and  happy 
group  of  his  brothers  and  sisters,  four  sisters  and  two  brothers, 
the  Henry  Lushington  who  died  at  Malta  in  the  year  1855,  and 
my  own  friend  and  contemporary  Franklin,  but  one  or  two 
visitors,  Mr  George  Venables,  and  Mr  Chapman,  a Fellow  I 
think  then  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.  I shall  never  forget 
the  impression  made  on  me  by  coming  in  contact  with  men  so 
striking  at  once  in  character  and  ability,  and  yet  a circle  so 
wholly,  so  widely,  different  from  that  which  had  gathered 
round  Arnold  at  Rugby,  or  with  which  I was  familiar,  so  far 
as  was  possible  for  one  so  young,  at  my  own  University.  The 
questions  that  stirred  so  deeply  our  seniors  and  ourselves  at 
Oxford,  the  position  of  J.  H.  Newman  and  his  friends,  the  course 
of  the  “ Oxford  movement,”  the  whole  Tractarian  Controversy, 
were  scarcely  mentioned,  or,  if  mentioned,  were  spoken  of  as 
matters  of  secondary  or  remote  interest : while  on  the  other 
hand  the  Lushington  brothers,  especially  the  Professor,  “ uncle 
Edmund”  as  I have  always  heard  you  term  him,  seemed  as  much 
at  home  in  the  language  of  the  Greek  dramatists  as  if  it  was  their 
native  tongue,  while  of  Henry  I remember  his  friend  Chapman 
saying  that  it  was  difficult  to  quote  or  read  a line  of  Shake- 
speare, to  which  he  could  not  at  once  give  the  reference  and  the 
context.  Of  Mr  Venables  and  the  position  which  he  had  long 
held  among  his  Cambridge  friends  and  which  he  was  already 
gaining  in  London  literary  society,  I need  not  speak.  How 
many  of  that  group,  whose  wide  and  varied  attainments,  un- 
studied but  suggestive  conversation,  so  impressed  the  young 
Oxford  undergraduate,  fresh  from  so  different  an  atmosphere, 
have  passed  beyond  the  veil! 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these,  all  his  warm  friends  and  asso- 
ciates, that  I first  saw  your  father.  I feel  sure  that  I saw  him 
during  my  first  visit ; on  the  second  occasion  he  and  his  mother 
and  sisters  had  been  living  for  some  months  in  Boxley  Hall,  the 
parish  in  which  Park  House  is  situated.  The  Professor  was 


MEETINGS  AT  PARK  HOUSE. 


205 


1842] 

already  engaged  to  your  aunt  Cecilia  Tennyson,  and  the  wedding 
followed  soon  after  my  return  home.  Your  father  was  I need 
hardly  say  constantly  at  Park  House,  and  there  were  few  days 
on  which  I did  not  see  him.  The  year  was  marked  by  the  recent 
publication  of  the  two-volume  edition  of  his  poems.  The  first 
volume,  a copy  of  which  during  my  visit  was  given  me  by  Frank 
Lushington,  is  still  a treasured  possession.  The  second  alas ! 
is  lost.  I try  to  look  back  through  the  mist  of  years  and  see 
your  father  as  I saw  him  then ; I remember  watching  him  as 
he  sat  on  a garden  seat  on  the  grass,  in  a brown  suit,  looking 
somewhat  grave  and  silent,  and  wondering  whether  my  friends  at 
Oxford  would  feel  as  I did  the  poems  which  I had  already  read, 
“ Mariana, ” “The  Gardener’s  Daughter,”  “ CEnone,”  “ Locksley 
Hall,”  and  “The  Two  Voices.”  Of  his  conversation  I can  only 
recall  one  or  two  fragments.  We,  the  younger  members  of  the 
party,  as  well  as  the  older  guests  and  your  father,  were  in  the 
garden  employed,  some  of  the  party  in  gathering,  some  in 
eating  wall-fruit,  peaches  and  apricots.  Some  one  made  a 
remark  about  the  fruit  being  liable  to  disagree  with  himself  or 
others,  to  which  another  (it  was  Chapman)  replied  with  a 
jocular  remark  about  “ the  disturbed  districts,”  alluding  of 
course  to  some  disorders  apprehended  or  existing  in  the 
centres  of  industry.  I remember  being  startled  by  your  father’s 
voice  and  accent,  “ I can’t  joke  about  so  grave  a question,”  and 
thinking  to  myself  that  it  was  exactly  what  one  so  different 
as  Dr  Arnold,  who  had  died  some  two  months  earlier,  might 
have  said  under  similar  circumstances. 

Again,  I was  greatly  struck  by  his  describing  to  us  on  one 
singularly  still  starlit  evening,  how  he  and  his  friends  had  once 
sat  out  far  into  the  night  having  tea  at  a table  on  the  lawn 
beneath  the  stars,  and  that  the  candles  had  burned  with  steady 
upright  flame,  disturbed  from  time  to  time  by  the  inrush  of  a 
moth  or  cockchafer,  as  tho’  in  a closed  room.  I do  not  know 
whether  he  had  already  written,  or  was  perhaps  even  then 
shaping,  the  lines  in  “ In  Memoriam,”  which  so  many  years 
afterwards  brought  back  to  me  the  incident. 

As  one  looks  back  to  the  years  previous  to  1842  it  is  curious 
to  notice  the  immense  change  caused  by  the  publication  of  those 
two  volumes.  On  my  return  to  Oxford  in  October  1842  his 
name  was  on  everyone’s  lips,  his  poems  discussed,  criticised, 
interpreted;  portions  of  them  repeatedly  set  for  translation 


206  REMINISCENCES  OF  TENNYSON  IN  EARLY  DAYS.  [l842 

into  Latin  or  Greek  verse  at  schools  and  colleges ; read  and 
re-read  so  habitually  that  there  were  many  of  us  who  could 
repeat  page  after  page  from  memory.  At  one  of  the  earliest 
meetings  which  I remember  at  a small  debating  Society, 
“The  Decade,”  well  known  at  Oxford  in  those  days,  I think  it 
was  in  1844,  was  a discussion  as  to  the  relative  merits  of  Words- 
worth and  Tennyson,  in  which  I especially  recall  the  speeches 
of  J.  C.  Shairp,  A.  H.  Clough,  and  I think  I may  add  of  the 
future  Chief  Justice  John  Coleridge. 

It  was  a great  change ; though  no  doubt  a small,  I should 
think  a very  small,  circle  of  Oxford  residents  may  have  been 
more  or  less  acquainted  with  his  published  poems  at  an  earlier 
date.  In  a letter  from  Arthur  Stanley,  written  from  Hurst- 
monceux  Rectory  in  the  September  of  1834,  he  says  to  his 
friend  W.  C.  Lake  (afterwards  Dean  of  Durham),  still  at  Rugby, 
that  Julius  Hare,  with  whom  he  was  staying,  “often  reads  to  us 
in  the  evening  things  quite  new  to  me,  for  instance  (tell  it  not  in 
Gath)  A.  Tennyson’s  Poems”  and  he  goes  on  to  name  some 
which  had  greatly  pleased  him,  and  to  advise  his  friend  to  get 
the  volume  and  read  it.  The  expression  “tell  it  not,”  etc.  is  no 
doubt  a reference  to  the  acrid  and  contemptuous  article  in  the 
Quarterly  of  1833. 

The  readings  at  Hurstmonceux  were  not  forgotten  by  the 
young  scholar  of  Balliol.  In  Stanley’s  very  striking  prize  poem 
“ The  Gipsies,”  written  in  1837,  he  adapted  to  the  heroic  measure 
a line  from  the  introduction  in  blank  verse  to  “ The  Palace  of 
Art,”  and  quoted  the  words  without  the  author’s  name  in  a note. 

In  a paper  on  John  Keble  he  tells  us  how  as  the  Professor  of 
Poetry  went  thro’  the  poem  before  recitation  with  him,  he  noticed 
the  quotation  and  passed  on,  saying  “ Shakespeare  I suppose.” 

In  the  three  or  four  terms  which  I had  spent  at  Oxford  I 
remember  also  myself  translating  into  Latin  Elegiacs  in  February 
1841,  from  a printed  copy,  the  last  three  stanzas  of  the  lines  to 
J.  S.  beginning  with  “ Words  weaker  than  your  grief,”  etc.  They 
were  in  the  possession  of  my  private  tutor  E.  Massey  of  Wadham, 
a distinguished  Shrewsbury  scholar,  whose  Cambridge  friends 
may  possibly  have  suggested  their  use  for  such  a purpose. 
Otherwise  I cannot  recall  anyone  at  Oxford  before  the  publica- 
tion of  the  two  volumes  ever  mentioning  your  father’s  poems. 
We  talked  much  of  Keble  on  the  one  hand,  Shelley  and  Byron 
on  the  other,  and  some  of  us  I need  not  say  were  strong  Words- 


1842] 


HIS  UNWORLDLINESS. 


207 


worthians  and  were  half-amused,  half-indignant  at  the  tendency 
of  some  of  our  undergraduate  friends  to  depreciate  Milton  as  a 
Puritan  poet;  but  the  intense  interest  called  out  by  the  two 
volumes  seems  to  me,  on  looking  back,  to  have  taken  my  young 
contemporaries  at  Oxford  as  well  as  the  outside  world  of  readers 
as  it  were  by  storm.  I seem  still  to  hear  voices  that  have  long 
since  been  silent  repeating  line  after  line,  which  I can  hardly 
read  even  now  without  recalling  the  very  accent  and  the  faces  of 
friends  of  “ days  that  are  no  more.” 

Aubrey  de  Vere  writes: 

It  was  in  1841  or  1842  that  I first  met  the  Poet1  on  whom 
and  on  whose  works  my  imagination  had  rested  so  often  during 
the  preceding  ten  years;  and  I lost  nothing  when  the  living  man 
stood  before  me.  The  large  dark  eyes,  generally  dreamy  but 
with  an  occasional  gleam  of  imaginative  alertness,  the  dusky, 
almost  Spanish  complexion,  the  high-built  head  and  the  massive 
abundance  of  curling  hair  like  the  finest  and  blackest  silk,  are  still 
before  me,  and  no  less  the  stalwart  form,  strong  “ with  the  certain 
step  of  man,”  though  some  years  earlier  it  might  have  moved 

Still  hither  thither  idly  sway’d 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Whenever  we  were  both  in  London,  I met  him  as  often  as 
I could,  sometimes  at  the  rooms  of  James  Spedding,  or  at  some 
late  smoking-party  consisting  of  young  men,  their  intimates  at 
the  University,  the  well-known  Cambridge  “Apostles.”  That 
was  a society  unvexed  by  formalities  ; and  I do  not  remember 
that  my  new  friend  and  I ever  called  each  other  otherwise 
than  by  our  Christian  names.  He  was  thus  always  called  by 
many  of  his  intimates  beside;  for  their  affection  for  him  partook 
largely  of  domestic  affection  in  its  character.  He  was  pre- 
eminently a man , as  well  as  a genius,  but  not  the  least  the 
man  of  the  world.  He  was  essentially  refined;  but  convention 
fled  before  his  face.  At  none  of  those  reunions  did  I meet  any 
of  his  brothers,  though  in  later  years  I knew  Frederick,  many 
of  whose  poems  were  much  admired  by  Henry  Taylor  as 
well  as  by  myself.  Unfortunately  I never  met  his  brother 

1 See  Appendix,  p.  501,  for  “The  Reception  of  the  Early  Poems,”  by 
Aubrey  de  Vere. 


20 8 REMINISCENCES  OF  TENNYSON  IN  EARLY  DAYS.  [l842 

Charles,  who  early  published  a slender  volume  of  Sonnets 
warmly  praised  by  Coleridge.  My  father  had  greatly  admired 
one  on  the  sea  — 

“The  lightest  murmur  of  its  seething  foam/’  etc. 

The  entire  simplicity  and  unconventionality  of  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson was  part  of  the  charm  which  bound  his  friends  to  him. 
No  acquaintance,  however  inferior  to  him  in  intellect,  could  be 
afraid  of  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  not  in  the  presence  of  a 
critic,  but  of  one  who  respected  human  nature  wherever  he 
found  it  free  from  unworthiness,  who  would  think  his  own 
thoughts  whether  in  the  society  of  ordinary  or  extraordinary 
men,  and  who  could  not  but  express  them  plainly  if  he  spoke 
at  all.  That  perfect  transparency  of  mind,  like  the  clearness  of 
air  in  the  finest  climates,  when  it  is  nearness  not  distance  that 
“ lends  enchantment  to  the  view,”  I have  seen  only  in  three 
men  beside  him,  Wordsworth,  Sir  William  Rowan  Hamilton 
and  one  other.  His  unguardedness,  in  combination  with  his 
unworldliness,  made  his  friends  all  the  more  zealous  to  help 
him;  and  perhaps  their  emulous  aid  was  more  useful  to  him 
than  self-help  could  have  been.  His  friends’  appreciation  of 
his  poetry  too  was  an  enthusiasm  ardent  enough  to  carry  with 
it  a healthful  infection.  It  forced  others  to  give  his  works  an 
earlier  attention  than  would  otherwise  have  been  their  lot,  and 
consequently  an  earlier  recognition;  but  it  was  the  genuine 
merit  of  his  poetry  which  produced  that  enthusiasm  and  pre- 
vented it  from  cooling  while  the  wise  were  forming  their  judg- 
ments, and  the  wiseacres  were  depreciating  minor  poets  and 
confounding  him  with  them.  Friends  could  but  raise  the  sail 
high  enough  to  catch  what  breeze  might  be  stirring.  The  rest 
depended  on  the  boat.  It  seems  strange  however  that  his  larger 
fame  made  way  so  slowly.  For  many  a year,  we,  his  zealots, 
were  but  zealots  of  a sect.  Seventeen  years  after  the  publication 
of  his  first  volume,  and  five  more  after  that  of  his  third,  “ The 
Princess,”  came  out,  I wrote  a critique  in  one  of  our  chief 
Quarterlies , and  called  him  a “ great  poet.”  The  then  Editor 
struck  out  “great”  and  substituted  “true.”  He  considered  that 
the  public  would  not  tolerate  so  strong  an  eulogium. 

Alfred  Tennyson’s  largeness  of  mind  and  of  heart  was  touch- 
ingly illustrated  by  his  reverence  for  Wordsworth’s  poetry,  not- 
withstanding that  the  immense  merits  which  he  recognised  in 


1842]  VISITS  WORDSWORTH  AT  HAMPSTEAD.  209 

it  were  not,  in  his  opinion,  supplemented  by  a proportionate 
amount  of  artistic  skill.  He  was  always  glad  to  show  reverence 
to  the  “ Old  Poet,”  not  then  within  ten  years  of  the  age  at 
which  the  then  younger  one  died.  “Wordsworth,”  he  said  to 
me  one  day,  “is  staying  at  Hampstead  in  the  house  of  his 
friend  Mr.  Hoare  ; I must  go  and  see  him ; and  you  must  come 
with  me ; mind  you  do  not  tell  Rogers,  or  he  will  be  displeased 
at  my  being  in  London  and  not  going  to  see  him.”  We  drove 
up  to  Hampstead,  and  knocked  at  the  door ; and  the  next 
minute  it  was  opened  by  the  Poet  of  the  World,  at  whose  side 
stood  the  Poet  of  the  Mountains.  Rogers’  old  face,  which  had 
encountered  nearly  ninety  years,  seemed  to  double  the  number 
of  its  wrinkles  as  he  said,  not  angrily  but  very  drily : “ Ah,  you 
did  not  come  up  the  hill  to  see  me ! ” During  the  visit  it  was 
with  Tennyson  that  the  Bard  of  Rydal  held  discourse,  while 
the  recluse  of  St  James’  Place,  whom  “that  angle”  especially 
delighted,  conversed  with  me.  As  we  walked  back  to  London 
through  grassy  fields  not  then  built  over,  Tennyson  complained 
of  the  old  Poet’s  coldness.  He  had  endeavoured  to  stimulate 
some  latent  ardours  by  telling  him  of  a tropical  island  where 
the  trees,  when  they  first  came  into  leaf,  were  a vivid  scarlet ; — 
“ Every  one  of  them,  I told  him,  one  flush  all  over  the  island, 
the  colour  of  blood  ! It  would  not  do.  I could  not  inflame  his 
imagination  in  the  least ! ” During  the  preceding  year  I had 
had  the  great  honour  of  passing  several  days  at  Rydal  Mount 
with  Wordsworth,  walking  on  his  mountains  and  listening  to 
him  at  his  fireside.  I told  him  that  a young  poet  had  lately 
risen  up.  Wordsworth  answered  that  he  feared  from  the  little 
he  had  heard  that  if  Crabbe  was  the  driest  of  poets,  the  young 
aspirant  must  have  the  opposite  fault.  I replied  that  he  should 
judge  for  himself,  and  without  leave  given,  recited  to  him  two 
poems  by  Tennyson:  viz.  “You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease,” 
and  “ Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights.”  Wordsworth  listened 
with  a gradually  deepening  attention.  After  a pause  he  an- 
swered, “ I must  acknowledge  that  these  two  poems  are  very 
solid  and  noble  in  thought.  Their  diction  also  seems  singularly 
stately  V’ 

1 Some  of  the  critics  state  that  before  these  poems  appeared,  no  modern 
poet  had  undertaken  the  hard  task  of  setting  forth  with  poetic  fire  and  glow 
the  golden  mean  of  politics.  Tennyson’s  view  was  that  a poet  ought  to  love 
his  own  country,  but  that  he  should  found  his  political  poems  on  what  was 
t.  1.  14 


2 10  REMINISCENCES  OF  TENNYSON  IN  EARLY  DAYS.  [l842 

There  was  another  occasion  on  which  the  Poet  whose  great 
work  was  all  but  finished,  and  the  youthful  compeer  whose  chief 
labours  were  yet  to  come,  met  in  my  presence.  It  was  at  a 
dinner  given  by  Mr  Moxon.  The  ladies  had  withdrawn,  and 
Wordsworth  soon  followed  them.  Several  times  Tennyson  said 
to  me  in  a low  voice,  “I  must  go:  I cannot  wait  any  longer.” 
At  last  the  cause  of  his  disquiet  revealed  itself.  It  was  painful 
to  him  to  leave  the  house  without  expressing  to  the  old  Bard 
his  sense  of  the  obligation  which  all  Englishmen  owed  to  him, 
and  yet  he  was  averse  to  speak  his  thanks  before  a large  com- 
pany. Our  host  brought  Wordsworth  back  to  the  dining-room ; 
and  Tennyson  moved  up  to  him.  He  spoke  in  a low  voice, 
and  with  a perceptible  emotion.  I must  not  cite  his  words 
lest  I should  mar  them  ; but  they  were  few,  simple  and  touching. 
The  old  man  looked  very  much  pleased,  more  so  indeed  than 
I ever  saw  him  look  on  any  other  occasion ; shook  hands  with 
him  heartily,  and  thanked  him  affectionately.  Wordsworth  thus 
records  the  incident  in  a letter  to  his  accomplished  American 
friend,  Professor  Reed  : “ I saw  Tennyson  when  I was  in  London 
several  times.  He  is  decidedly  the  first  of  our  living  poets,  and 
I hope  will  live  to  give  the  world  still  better  things.  You  will 
be  pleased  to  hear  that  he  expressed  in  the  strongest  terms  his 
gratitude  to  my  writings.  To  this  I was  far  from  indifferent1.” 

Our  many  conversations,  in  those  pleasant  years,  turned 
chiefly  on  Poetry,  a subject  on  which  Tennyson  could  say 
nothing  that  was  not  original.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  to 
discern  the  Beautiful  in  all  around  us,  and  to  reveal  that  beauty 
to  others,  was  his  special  poetic  vocation.  In  these  conversations 
he  never  uttered  a word  that  was  disparaging,  or  tainted  with 
the  spirit  of  rivalship.  One  of  the  Poets  least  like  himself, 
Crabbe,  was  among  those  whose  merits  he  affirmed  most  un- 
equivocally, especially  his  gift  of  a hard  pathos.  The  only  poet 
I heard  him  criticise  roughly  or  unfairly  was  himself.  “ Compare,” 
he  once  said  to  me,  “ compare  the  heavy  handling  of  my  work- 
manship with  the  exquisite  lightness  of  touch  in  Keats ! ” Another 
time  he  read  aloud  a song  by  one  of  the  chivalrous  Poets  of  Charles 
the  First’s  time,  perhaps  Lovelace’s  “Althea,”  which  Wordsworth 
also  used  to  croon  in  the  woods,  and  said,  “ There ! I would  give 

noble  and  great  in  the  history  of  all  countries,  and  that  his  utterances  should 
be  outspoken,  yet  statesmanlike,  without  any  colour  of  partizanship. 

1 Prose  Works  of  William  Wordsworth , Vol.  in.,  p.  391.  Dr  Grosart. 


21  I 


1842]  VARIOUS  ESTIMATES  OF  BURNS’  POETRY. 

all  my  poetry  to  have  made  one  song  like  that!”  Not  less 
ardent  was  his  enthusiasm  for  Burns.  And  here  an  incident 
with  no  small  significance  recurs  to  me.  “Read  the  exquisite 
songs  of  Burns,”  he  exclaimed.  “ In  shape,  each  of  them  has 
the  perfection  of  the  berry  ; in  light  the  radiance  of  the  dewdrop : 
you  forget  for  its  sake  those  stupid  things,  his  serious  pieces!” 
The  same  day  I met  Wordsworth,  and  named  Burns  to  him. 
Wordsworth  praised  him,  even  more  vehemently  than  Tennyson 
had  done,  as  the  great  genius  who  had  brought  Poetry  back 
to  Nature;  but  ended,  “Of  course  I refer  to  his  serious  efforts, 
such  as  the  ‘ Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  ’ ; those  foolish  little 
amatory  songs  of  his  one  has  to  forget.”  I told  the  tale  to 
Henry  Taylor  that  evening  ; and  his  answer  was  : “ Burns’  ex- 
quisite songs  and  Burns’  serious  efforts  are  to  me  alike  tedious, 
and  disagreeable  reading ! ” So  much  for  the  infallibility  of 
Poets  in  their  own  art ! 


CHAPTER  X. 


LETTERS. 

1842-1845. 

From  Samuel  Rogers. 

St  James’  Place,  August  i*jth,  1842. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

Every  day  have  I resolved  to  write  and  tell  you 
with  what  delight  I have  read  and  read  again  your  two  beautiful 
volumes ; but  it  was  my  wish  to  tell  you  so  face  to  face.  That 
wish  however  remains  unfulfilled  and  write  I must,  for  very  few 
things,  if  any,  have  ever  thrilled  me  so  much. 

Yours  ever,  S.  Rogers. 


To  Edmund  Lushington . 


My  dear  Edmund, 


Sept.  Zth,  1842. 


* * * * * 


I called  on  Moxon,  not  at  home,  gone  to 
the  Pyrenees  with  W.  Wordsworth’s  two  sons.  500  of 
my  books  are  sold : according  to  Moxon’s  brother  I have 
made  a sensation  ! I wish  the  wood-works 1 would  make 
a sensation  ! I expect  they  will.  I came  here  this 
morning  by  the  Liverpool  packet.  I go  to  Limerick 


1 This  was  Dr  Allen’s  manufactory  for  carving  wood,  in  which  my  father 
had  invested  all  his  little  money.  Full  details  of  this  are  given  on  p.  220. 

212 


CARLYLE  AND  THE  POEMS. 


2 13 


1842] 

to-night.  I hope  you  are  all  blooming.  What  with  ruin 
in  the  distance  and  hypochondriacs  in  the  foreground 
God  help  all.  Pray  write  to  me  at  P.  O. 

Love  to  all  yours  and  mine. 

Yours  ever,  A.  T. 

From  Thomas  Carlyle . 

Cheyne  Road,  Chelsea. 

7 th  Dec.  1842. 

Dear  Tennyson, 

Wherever  this  find  you,  may  it  find  you  well,  may 
it  come  as  a friendly  greeting  to  you.  I have  just  been  reading 
your  Poems ; I have  read  certain  of  them  over  again,  and  mean 
to  read  them  over  and  over  till  they  become  my  poems : this 
fact,  with  the  inferences  that  lie  in  it,  is  of  such  emphasis  in 
me,  I cannot  keep  it  to  myself,  but  must  needs  acquaint  you 
too  with  it.  If  you  knew  what  my  relation  has  been  to  the 
thing  call’d  English  “ Poetry  ” for  many  years  back,  you  would 
think  such  fact  almost  surprising!  Truly  it  is  long  since  in  any 
English  Book,  Poetry  or  Prose,  I have  felt  the  pulse  of  a real 
man’s  heart  as  I do  in  this  same.  A right  valiant,  true  fighting, 
victorious  heart;  strong  as  a lion’s,  yet  gentle,  loving  and  full 
of  music : what  I call  a genuine  singer’s  heart ! there  are  tones 
as  of  the  nightingale  ; low  murmurs  as  of  wood-doves  at  summer 
noon ; everywhere  a noble  sound  as  of  the  free  winds  and  leafy 
woods.  The  sunniest  glow  of  Life  dwells  in  that  soul,  chequered 
duly  with  dark  streaks  from  night  and  Hades : everywhere  one 
feels  as  if  all  were  fill’d  with  yellow  glowing  sunlight,  some 
glorious  golden  Vapour;  from  which  form  after  form  bodies 
itself ; naturally,  golden  forms.  In  one  word,  there  seems  to  be 
a note  of  “ The  Eternal  Melodies  ” in  this  man  ; for  which  let  all 
other  men  be  thankful  and  joyful!  Your  “ Dora”  reminds  me 
of  the  Book  of  Ruth ; in  the  “Two  Voices,”  which  I am  told 
some  Reviewer  calls  “trivial  morality,”  I think  of  passages  in 
Job . For  truth  is  quite  true  in  Job’s  time  and  Ruth’s  as  now. 
I know  you  cannot  read  German : the  more  interesting  is  it 
to  trace  in  your  “ Summer  Oak  ” a beautiful  kindred  to  some- 
thing that  is  best  in  Goethe;  I mean  his  “ Miillerinn”  (Miller’s 


214  LETTERS  1842-1845.  [l842 

daughter)  chiefly,  with  whom  the  very  Mill-dam  gets  in  love ; 
tho’  she  proves  a flirt  after  all  and  the  thing  ends  in  satirical 
lines ! very  strangely  too  in  the  “ Vision  of  Sin  ” I am 
reminded  of  my  friend  Jean  Paul.  This  is  not  babble,  it  is 
speech ; true  deposition  of  a volunteer  witness.  And  so  I say 
let  us  all  rejoice  somewhat.  And  so  let  us  all  smite  rhythmically, 
all  in  concert,  “ the  sounding  furrows  ” ; and  sail  forward  with 
new  cheer,  “beyond  the  sunset,”  whither  we  are  bound  — 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down, 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  Isles 
And  see  the  great  Achilles  whom  we  knew  ! 

These  lines  do  not  make  me  weep,  but  there  is  in  me  what 
would  fill  whole  Lachrymatories  as  I read.  But  do  you,  when 
you  return  to  London,  come  down  to  me  and  let  us  smoke  a 
pipe  together.  With  few  words,  with  many,  or  with  none,  it 
need  not  be  an  ineloquent  Pipe ! 

Farewell,  dear  Tennyson;  may  the  gods  be  good  to  you. 
With  very  great  sincerity  (and  in  great  haste)  I subscribe  myself 

Yours,  T.  Carlyle. 

My  father  tells  his  sister  Emily  to  copy  this  letter 
and  enclose  it  to  my  mother.  Emily  writes  as  follows : 

I like  this  letter,  dost  not  thou  ? I asked  Alfred  what 
Carlyle  meant  by  saying  he  could  not  read  German,  and  he 
said,  when  the  poems  he  (i.e.  Carlyle)  alluded  to  were  written 
he  knew  little  or  nothing  of  German.  He  must  have  told 
Carlyle  this  who  has  made  a jumble.  Moreover  Alfred  says, 
“ Carlyle  is  mistaken  about  the  satirical  lines,  concluding  the 
‘ Mullerinn.’  They  are  in  another  poem.” 

Thy  very  affectionate  Emily. 

From  Sara  Coleridge 1 to  Edward  Moxon  ( enclosed 
to  my  father  in  a letter  from  Moxon). 

1842. 

My  dear  Sir, 

My  husband  and  I have  very  often  had  to  thank  you 
for  additions  to  our  library  most  kindly  made.  Your  last  gift 
is  a most  acceptable  one  and  supplies  me  with  a rich  treat  for 
1 The  only  and  highly-gifted  daughter  of  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


1842] 


THE  PATENT  CARVING  COMPANY. 


215 


days  to  come,  and  one  which  I need  not  devour  too  greedily, 
but  can  recur  to  from  time  to  time  with  fresh  pleasure.  It  is 
a compliment  (as  far  as  admiration  of  mine  can  be  compli- 
mentary) to  Mr  Tennyson,  that  having  laid  hold  of  the  first 
volume,  containing  poems  which  I had  read  over  and  over  again 
a few  years  ago,  I could  not  part  with  it  for  the  new  productions, 
much  as  my  curiosity  had  been  excited  about  them,  but  fell  to 
reading  my  old  favourites  with  even  greater  admiration  than  ever. 

What  I have  read  of  the  second  volume  will  sustain  the 
author’s  reputation,  which  is  much  to  say.  The  Epic  is  what 
might  have  been  expected,  not  epical  at  all  but  very  beautiful, 
in  Tennyson’s  old  manner. 

“ The  Gardener’s  Daughter  ” is  most  highly  wrought  and  still 
more  to  be  admired  I think  than  the  “ Morte  d’ Arthur.” 

Accept  best  thanks  both  from  Mr  Coleridge  and  myself  and 
believe  me 

Very  sincerely  yours,  Sara  Coleridge. 


To  the  Rev . H.  D.  R awns  ley. 
My  dear  Rawnsley, 


1842. 


Your  note  dated  the  5th  only  reached  me 
last  night  (eleven  days  after  date)  at  this  place,  Torquay, 
Devon.  Dr  Allen  did  not  forward  it  immediately  as  he 
ought  to  have  done,  in  fact  in  the  multiplicity  of  his 
business  and  his  40  letters  a day  I believe  he  had  quite 
forgotten  my  direction,  until  I refresht  his  memory  by 
sending  it.  How  the  wood-scheme  goes  on  you  ask. 
The  concern  I believe  is  going  on  very  well ; there  are 
as  many  orders  as  can  be  executed  by  our  old  presses ; 
we  have  been  modelling  presses  all  this  time.  They 
sent  one  from  Brummagem,  wretched  thing  ! split  as  soon 
as  put  into  action  (I  hear  that  all  Brummagem  machinery 
is  of  the  worst  description  : let  Brummagem  look  to  it  or 
she  will  ruin  her  reputation),  but  Wood  has  succeeded 
in  making  really  quite  a beautiful  press  which  will  do  as 
much  work  in  the  same  time  as  two  of  the  old  ones. 


2l6 


LETTERS  1842-1845. 


[1842 


And  now  (as  we  have  it  on  the  pattern)  we  are  going 
to  have  one  made  a week,  till  we  have  enough.  We  shall 
go  on  swimmingly.  The  presses  have  been  modelling* 
and  the  men  educating  up  till  now,  for  after  all  (simple 
as  it  seems)  it  is  a very  delicate  process  to  manage 
properly,  and  we  want  a great  many  workmen. 

I have  written  in  great  haste,  and  I know  not  whether 
your  queries  are  answer’d ; if  not,  write  again  and  ask 
me  what  you  wish  to  know.  We  have  dropt  the  name 
“ Pyroglyph  ” as  too  full  of  meaning  (a  singular  reason 
for  rejecting  a word  !),  and  call  ourselves  “The  Patent 
Decorative  Carving  and  Sculpture  Company ! ” Be  care- 
ful! I told  you  all  about  it  on  the  score  of  old  friend- 
ship and  auld  lang  syne.  Poor  Sophy ! I am  deeply 
grieved  to  hear  of  her  illness. 

Drummond’s  affair1  is  no  secret  to  me  for  I accused 
him  of  it  in  your  little  study  and  the  sort  of  denial  he 
made  was  as  good  as  a confession,  and  I have  since 
heard  of  it  from  other  quarters : these  things  never  are 
secrets  in  the  country. 

You  never  heard  the  word  “ivy-tod”;  but  you  have 
heard  of  “ tods  of  wool,”  and  I take  it  they  are  the  same 
words  originally,  a certain  weight  or  mass  of  something. 

Kindest  love  to  all  your  party, 

Ever  yours  in  great  haste,  A.  T. 


Torquay,  Devon. 

I shall  most  likely  leave  this  place  for  town  in  a few 
days.  You  had  better,  therefore,  if  you  write  again  write 
to  London.  Farewell.  I have  had  so  little  time,  I am 
afraid  I have  written  a very  confused  letter. 


1 Drummond  Rawnsley’s  engagement  to  Catherine  Franklin,  daughter 
of  Sir  Willingham  Franklin,  and  niece  of  Sir  John  Franklin. 


1843] 


LETTERS  TO  AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


217 


To  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

Eastbourne. 

Saturday , July  30th,  1842. 

My  dear  Aubrey, 

As  for  dining  with  your  uncle,  that,  you  see, 
is  out  of  the  question,  as  your  note  has  just  been 
delivered  to  me  at  this  place,  Eastbourne,  on  the  Sussex 
coast.  I shall  account  myself  highly  honoured  in  receiv- 
ing a copy  of  “ Edwin  the  Fair ’’from  Henry  Taylor; 
these  are  not  empty  words : therefore  I underscore  them : 
likewise  your  edited  book  will,  I have  no  doubt,  yield  me 
much  pleasure.  I shall  be  about  a week  longer  at  this 
place,  and  if  you  send  the  parcel  hither  directed  22  Sea- 
houses,  Eastbourne,  it  will  go  far  to  relieve  the  tedium 
of  a watering-place. 

Ever  yours,  A.  T. 

To  Aubrey  de  Vere . 

Victoria  Hotel,  Killarney. 

September , 1842. 

My  dear  Aubrey, 

I am  sorry  you  had  the  fruitless  trouble  of 
calling  at  the  Temple1.  I tried  hard  to  find  you  out  in 
London  but  did  not  succeed.  Partly  from  indisposition 
and  partly  from  business  and  that  of  a nature  the  most 
unpleasant2,  I was  kept  at  Boxley  far  longer  than  I 
wished  or  expected,  so  long  indeed  that  I have  hardly 
any  time  left  for  Ireland,  as  in  a day  or  two  I must  again 
set  out  for  Boxley.  I have  only  just  got  your  letter  to 
me  out  of  the  Killarney  Post  Office.  Christie,  the 
member,  found  it  in  L.’s  rooms,  and  brought  it  to 
Chapman,  who  sent  it  to  Edmund  Lushington,  who  sent 

1 1 Mitre  Court  Buildings : F.  Lushington’s  rooms  where  he  often  lodged. 

2 When  the  wood-carving  company  had  begun  to  fail. 


2l8 


LETTERS  1842-1845. 


[1843 


it  to  my  people  who  sent  it  to  me.  Now  if  that  sentence 
has  not  taken  away  your  breath,  make  my  apologies  to 
your  cousin  and  beg  her  not  to  hate  me  because  I never 
seem  to  accept  an  invitation  of  hers.  I suppose  you  are 
yet  in  Blandford  Square,  to  which  accordingly  I send 
this  note.  I do  not  know  that,  if  you  were  here,  I should 
have  time  to  come. 

I have  been  to  your  Ballybunion  caves  but  could  not 
get  into  the  finest  on  account  of  the  weather.  I was 
obliged  to  give  Dingle  up  from  want  of  time,  tho’  I 
much  wished  to  see  it,  and  I am  afraid  I must  forgo 
Glengarry  likewise. 

A.  T. 


I can  find  no  further  account  of  this  visit  to  Ireland, 
except  that  my  father  then  made  the  following  lines, 
which  occur  in  “ Merlin  and  Vivien,”  within  one  of  the 
caves  of  Ballybunion : 

So  dark  a forethought  roll’d  about  his  brain, 

As  on  a dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 

The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long  sea-hall 

In  silence. 


To  James  Spedding . 

January  25 th,  1843. 

Dear  James, 

I send  you  a sketch  of  Mablethorpe.  I was 
wrong  about  the  muffin-man,  he  comes  o’  Saturdays  and 
I can  likewise  get  letters  on  Tuesdays,  those  being 
market-days  at  Alford  and  churls  going.  Don’t  forget 
the  Athenczum.  I send  the  sketch  to  melt  your  heart. 
Impart  what  booksellers’  news  there  may  be  and  re- 
member me  to  Fitz,  if  in  town. 


Ever  yours,  A.  T. 


1843] 


LETTER  FROM  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


219 


He  also  writes  to  Moxon  from  Mablethorpe  : “ There 
is  nothing  here  but  myself  and  two  starfish ; therefore,  if 
you  have  any  stray  papers  which  you  do  not  know  what 
to  do  with,  as  you  once  told  me,  they  would  be  manna  in 
the  wilderness  to  me.” 


From  Charles  Dickens , sent  with  a copy  of 
his  “Works.” 

Devonshire  Terrace, 

March  10  th,  1843. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

For  the  love  I bear  you  as  a man  whose  writings 
enlist  my  whole  heart  and  nature  in  admiration  of  their  Truth 
and  Beauty,  set  these  books  upon  your  shelves ; believing  that 
you  have  no  more  earnest  and  sincere  homage  than  mine. 

Faithfully  and  Gratefully  your  Friend, 

Charles  Dickens. 

To  Aubrey  de  Vere . 

St  Leonard’s,  Sept.  17th,  1843. 

My  dear  Aubrey, 

I received  your  letter,  but  not  in  time  to 
answer  by  return  of  post,  and  as  you  purposed  setting 
out  next  day,  I do  not  know  whether  it  were  worth 
while  writing  to  you  at  all : perhaps  you  may  get  my  note 
somewhere  in  Italy;  as  it  contains  nothing,  you  will  be 
hurt  at  sight  of  an  English  postmark  on  a pithless 
scrawl.  I am  sorry  to  hear  of  Henry  Taylors  ill-health, 
but  I have  good  faith  in  warm  suns  and  leisure.  You 
are  quite  unforgiveable  in  your  perpetual  assumption  of 
my  nonchalance  as  to  whatever  you  write.  Why  you  do 
always  so  assume,  and  what  reason  I can  have  given  you 
for  such  an  error  on  your  part,  is  to  me  hidden  in  black 
cloud.  You  should  have  sent  your  proofs.  It  is  quite 


220 


LETTERS  1842-1845. 


[l844 


true  that  you  have  heard  me  say  that  I was  sometimes 

bored  by  Mr  E and  others ; but  why  you  should  be 

so  ultra-humble  as  to  mass  yourself  along  with  these,  and 
dream  you  range  no  higher  in  my  andrometer,  is  beyond 
my  following.  Peace  be  with  such  fancies,  that  is,  I hope 
they  are  dead  and  over  them  the  “ hie  jacent  ” of  all 
futurity.  Thank  you  however  for  the  book. 

I am  down  here  at  St  Leonard’s  with  the  Lushing- 
tons ; there  are  smooth  seas  and  hot  weather,  and  I wish 
you  were  with  me.  Good-bye,  and  don’t  be  angry  at  this 
scrapling. 

Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


On  July  13th,  1844,  Moxon  wrote  that  Tom  Campbell 
had  died  at  Boulogne.  My  father  missed  him,  for  he  was 
a kind-hearted  man  and  a brilliant  talker  in  a tete-a-tete ; 
and  very  good-natured  whenever  they  met,  as  not  un- 
frequently  chanced,  at  the  different  clubs. 

That  the  following  letter  should  be  understood,  it 
is  necessary  to  explain  why  my  father  had  fallen  ill. 
Dr  Allen,  who  has  been  already  mentioned,  was  a 
physician  near  Beech  Hill,  with  whom  the  Tennyson 
family  had  become  acquainted,  and  who  had  either 
conceived,  or  had  adopted,  the  idea  of  wood-carving  by 
machinery.  At  all  events  he  inspired  the  Tennysons 
with  so  great  an  enthusiasm  for  it,  that  by  degrees  he 
persuaded  my  father  to  give  him  the  money  for  which, 
wearied  by  a careless  agent,  he  had  sold  his  little  estate 
in  Grasby,  Lincolnshire,  and  even  the  ^500  left  him  as 
a legacy  by  Arthur  Hallam’s  aunt.  Not  merely  this 
however,  — since,  but  for  my  father’s  intervention  ap- 
parently, all  the  property  of  such  of  the  family  as  were  at 
Beech  Hill  would  have  been  merged  in  this  philanthropic 
undertaking ; so  fascinating  was  the  prospect  of  oak 
panels  and  oak  furniture  carved  by  machinery,  thus 


1844]  ILLNESS  AND  HYDROPATHY.  221 

brought  by  its  cheapness  within  the  reach  of  the 
multitude. 

The  confidence  my  father  had  placed  in  the  “earnest- 
frothy  ” Dr  Allen  proved  to  be  misplaced.  The  entire 
project  collapsed : my  father’s  worldly  goods  were  all 
gone,  and  a portion  of  the  property  of  his  brothers 
and  sisters.  Then  followed  a season  of  real  hardship, 
and  many  trials  for  my  father  and  mother,  since  marriage 
seemed  to  be  further  off  than  ever.  So  severe  a hypo- 
chondria set  in  upon  him  that  his  friends  despaired 
of  his  life.  “ I have,”  he  writes,  “ drunk  one  of  those 
most  bitter  draughts  out  of  the  cup  of  life,  which  go 
near  to  make  men  hate  the  world  they  move  in.”  My 
uncle  Edmund  Lushington  in  1844  generously  insured 
Dr  Allen’s  life  for  part  of  the  debt  due  to  my  father; 
the  Doctor  died  in  January  1845. 


To  Edmund  Lushington . 

Cheltenham,  July  29 th,  1844. 

My  dear  Edmund, 

I ought  certainly  to  have  written  before,  but 
I don’t  know  how  it  is,  I cannot  abide  letter  writing. 
Many  letters  have  I conceived  to  you  tho’  brought 
forth  none.  In  the  first  stages  of  Hydropathy  (under 
Dr  Jephson)  I found  it  quite  impossible  to  write,  I could 
not  turn  my  hand  to  anything  and  now  I am  not  much 
better.  I shall  have  to  go  into  the  system  again  and 
carry  it  out  to  the  end.  It  is  true  I had  ten  crisises  but 
I am  not  cured,  tho’  I do  not  doubt  of  the  efficiency  of 
the  treatment  in  most  cases,  having  seen  most  marvellous 
cures  performed.  I am  going  to  town  to-morrow  for  two 
or  three  days.  I want  among  other  things  to  see  the 
exhibition  and  this  is  its  last  week.  I have  seen  no  Art, 
and  my  soul  thirsts  for  it,  for  a year.  I fear  it  would  be 


222 


LETTERS  1842-1845. 


[l844 


too  expensive  to  come  on  to  Eastbourne,  and  you  are  not 
at  Park  House,  and  will  not  be  perhaps  for  a fortnight 
or  three  weeks.  At  any  rate  I shall  hope  to  see  you 
at  Cheltenham.  Perhaps  with  Harry’s  leave  I shall  try 
to  get  Geraldine  to  give  me  a bed  in  his  rooms.  I have 
walked  thrice  up  Snowdon  which  I found  much  easier  to 
accomplish  than  walking  on  level  ground. 

London.  I arrived  last  night  at  the  old  Hummums 
at  1 1 o’clock : called  on  Spedding,  to  my  great  disappoint- 
ment he  had  left  town ; called  on  Chapman,  door  sported, 
no  answer  to  repeated  applications  at  his  no-knockered 
portal. 

Love  to  Cissy  and  the  rest. 

Ever  yours,  A.  T. 


During  this  visit  to  London  Savile  Morton  wrote 
to  Mrs  Brotherton  that  he  had  “ come  across  Alfred 
Tennyson.”  “We  looked  out  some  Latin  translations  of 
his  poems  by  Cambridge  men,  and  read  some  poems  of 
Leigh  Hunt’s,  and  some  of  Theocritus  and  Virgil.  It  is 
delightful  to  have  a passage  picked  out  for  one  to  admire 
by  him.  Seeing  through  his  eyes  much  enlarges  one’s 
view.  He  has  the  power  of  impressing  you  with  the 
greatness  of  what  he  admires  and  bringing  out  its 
meaning.  I had  no  idea  Virgil  could  ever  sound  so  fine 
as  it  did  by  his  reading.. ..Yesterday  I went  to  see  him 
again.  After  some  chat  we  sat  down  in  two  separate 
rooms  to  read  Elleit  Middleton , by  Lady  Georgian  a 
Fullerton — very  highly  spoken  of.”  In  another  letter 
he  says:  “Seeing  Alfred  has  been  a diversion  to  me.... 
I never  met  a heart  so  large  and  full  of  love.” 

In  November  my  father  was  again  at  Cheltenham, 
and  wrote  to  Edward  Moxon : 


I want  you  to  get  me  a book  which  I see  ad- 
vertised in  the  Examiner:  it  seems  to  contain  many 


223 


1845 J LETTERS  TO  MOXON  AND  FITZGERALD. 

speculations  with  which  I have  been  familiar  for  years, 
and  on  which  I have  written  more  than  one  poem. 
The  book  is  called  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of 
Creation \ and  published  by  J.  Churchill,  Princes  St. 
Soho ; the  price  ys.  6d.,  but  you  can  get  it  cheaper. 

Another  book  I long  very  much  to  see  is  that  on  the 
superiority  of  the  modern  painters  to  the  old  ones,  and 
the  greatness  of  Turner  as  an  artist,  by  an  Oxford  under- 
graduate I think1 2.  I do  not  much  wish  to  buy  it,  it  may 
be  dear;  perhaps  you  could  borrow  it  for  me  out  of  the 
London  Library,  or  from  Rogers.  I saw  it  lying  on  his 
table.  I would  promise  to  take  care  of  it,  and  send 
it  back  in  due  time.  At  any  rate  let  me  have  the  other. 
Kind  remembrances  to  Mrs  and  Miss  Moxon  and  the 
little  one  to  boot. 


To  Edward  Fitzgerald, 

Tuesday  Night. 

io  St  James’  Square,  Cheltenham, 

Jan.  14th,  1845. 

My  dear  Fitz, 

I had  heard  the  news 3.  No  gladness  crossed 
my  heart  but  sorrow  and  pity : that’s  not  theatrical  but 
the  truth ; wherefore  bear  with  me,  tho’  perhaps  it  may 
seem  a little  out  of  the  tide  of  things.  Now  will  you  be 
at  19  C.  S.  to-morrow  or  the  day  after?  I am  coming 
up  to  see  you,  and  shall  arrive  most  probably  between 


1 The  sections  of  “In  Memoriam”  about  Evolution  had  been  read  by  his 
friends  some  years  before  the  publication  of  the  Vestiges  of  Creation  in  1844. 
Of  natural  selection  Romanes  writes,  “In  ‘ In  Memoriam’  Tennyson  noted 
the  fact,  and  a few  years  later  Darwin  supplied  the  explanation.”  Darwin 
and  after  Darwin , Romanes. 

2 Ruskin’s  first  volume  of  Modern  Painters. 

3 The  reference  in  this  letter  is  to  the  death  of  Dr  Allen. 


LETTERS  1842-1845. 


224 


[l845 


9 and  10  p.m.,  when  I trust  I shall  find  you  well  and 
thriving. 

Ever  yours,  A.  T. 


From  Henry  Hallam  ( enclosing  Sir  Robert 
Peel's  letter) . 


My  dear  Tennyson, 


Wraxall  Lodge,  near  Bristol. 

Sept.  24 th,  1845. 


You  will  believe  that  it  is  with  the  greatest  pleasure 
I enclose  to  you  the  letter  I have  this  day  received  from  Sir 
R.  Peel. 

I think  you  will  have  no  hesitation  about  answering  it  to 
him,  nothing  can  be  more  flattering  or  delicate. 

We  want  to  learn  more  about  Emily  herself.  Can  she  not 
ever  write  herself  ? The  last  we  heard  was  that  she  had  left 
Cheltenham,  yet  this  can  hardly  be. 

We  have  been  for  some  months  here  and  shall  continue  till 
the  beginning  of  December ; if  you  ever  wander  this  way,  we 
shall  be  very  glad  to  give  you  a dinner  and  bed ; and  I have 
both  glades  and  distant  views  to  show  you. 


Believe  me  yours  very  truly, 

H.  Hallam. 


From  the  Right  Honourable  Sir  Robert  Peel  to 
Alfred  Tennyson. 

I rejoice  that  you  have  enabled  me  to  fulfil  the  intentions 
of  Parliament  by  advising  the  Crown  to  confer  a mark  of  Royal 
Favour1  on  one  who  has  devoted  to  worthy  purposes  great 
intellectual  powers. 

The  Queen  has  cordially  approved  of  the  recommendation 
which  on  the  receipt  of  your  letter  I humbly  offered  to  Her 
Majesty. 


1 Pension  of  ^200  annually. 


1845] 


LORD  HOUGHTON  AND  CARLYLE. 


225 


I have  more  than  once  heard  Lord  Houghton  and 
my  father  talk  together  of  Peel  as  a man  and  a states- 
man ; and  on  those  occasions  Lord  Houghton  would 
invariably  relate  the  story  of  his  interview  with  Carlyle 
about  the  pension,  given  in  Wemyss  Reids  Life  and 
here  reprinted. 

“ Richard  Milnes,”  said  Carlyle  one  day,  withdrawing  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  as  they  were  seated  together  in  the  little 
house  in  Cheyne  Row,  “ when  are  you  going  to  get  that  pension 
for  Alfred  Tennyson  ? ” 

“ My  dear  Carlyle,”  responded  Milnes,  “ the  thing  is  not  so 
easy  as  you  seem  to  suppose.  What  will  my  constituents  say 
if  I do  get  the  pension  for  Tennyson  ? They  know  nothing 
about  him  or  his  poetry,  and  they  will  probably  think  he  is  some 
poor  relation  of  my  own,  and  that  the  whole  affair  is  a job.” 

Solemn  and  emphatic  was  Carlyle’s  response.  “ Richard 
Milnes,  on  the  Day  of  Judgment,  when  the  Lord  asks  you  why 
you  didn’t  get  that  pension  for  Alfred  Tennyson,  it  will  not  do 
to  lay  the  blame  on  your  constituents ; it  is  yoti  that  will  be 
damned.” 

The  question  arose  whether  Sheridan  Knowles  or  my 
father  should  be  placed  on  the  pension  list.  Peel  knew 
nothing  of  either  of  them.  Houghton  said  that  he  then 
made  Peel  read  “ Ulysses,”  “whereupon  the  pension  was 
granted  to  Tennyson.” 

My  father  wrote  then  to  his  old  friend,  Rawnsley : 

Cheltenham,  1845. 

My  dear  Rawnsley, 

I was  delighted  to  see  your  handwriting 
again.  I thought  you  had  given  me  up  as  a bad  job,  for 
I remember  that  I once  very  flagitiously  did  not  answer 
a very  kind  letter  of  yours  long  long  ago : and  truly  my 
love  for  my  friends  must  not  be  measured  by  the  quantity 
of  black  and  white  into  which  I put  it:  for,  however 


T.  I. 


5 


226  LETTERS  1842-1845.  [l845 

appearances  are  against  me,  I have  a love  for  old 
Lincolnshire  faces  and  things  which  will  stick  by  me  as 
long  as  I live.  As  to  visiting  you  I wish  I could,  but  I 
am  engaged  to  Hallam,  who  has  a country  house  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Bristol,  and  it  is  an  engagement  of 
some  standing,  and  thither  am  I going  as  soon  as  ever 
I recover  from  the  worst  cold  I ever  caught  since  I was 
a Somersby  suckling.  It  has  kept  me  half-deaf  for  a 
month.  I got  it  one  wet  night  at  Chelsea,  when  I went 
to  see  Mr.  Carlyle.  The  better  half  of  the  Carlyle  was 
then  in  Scotland.  He,  by  the  bye,  is  about  to  publish  a 
book  which  you  had  better  get  in  your  book  club  — all  the 
letters  of  Oliver  Cromwell  that  can  be  got  at,  connected 
with  a short  narration  or  commentary  of  his  own.  Oliver 
is  Carlyle’s 1 God,  the  greatest  of  great  men,  and  he 
intends  if  he  can  to  sweep  off  all  the  royalist  cobwebs 
that  have  hitherto  obscured  his  fair  fame. 

I am  glad  to  hear  of  your  quadrilling  at  Horncastle. 
There  is  something  pleasant  in  the  notion  of  your  figur- 
ing in  L’Ete  with  all  your  hood  fluttering  about  you, 
and  I respect  a man  who  can  keep  his  heart  green  when 
the  snows  of  Time  begin  to  whiten  his  head:  not  that  I 
mean  to  say  your  head  is  white,  but  the  silver  hair  may 
intrude  “obiter,”  tho’  as  far  as  I recollect  you  had  a very 
stout  black  crop  when  I saw  you  last.  I should  like  to 
have  been  amongst  you  as  in  old  times  but 

“ The  days  are  awa  that  we  hae  seen,” 

and  I begin  to  feel  an  old  man  myself.  I have  gone 
thro’  a vast  deal  of  suffering  (as  to  money  difficulties  in 
my  family  etc.)  since  I saw  you  last,  and  would  not  live 
it  over  again  for  quadruple  the  pension  Peel  has  given 
me  and  on  which  you  congratulate  me.  Well,  I suppose 
I ought  in  a manner  to  be  grateful.  I have  done  nothing 

1 My  father  would  rally  Carlyle  on  his  u might  is  right  ” and  u one  man  ” 
theories. 


THE  PENSION. 


227 


1845] 

slavish  to  get  it:  I never  even  solicited  for  it  either  by 
myself  or  thro’  others.  It  was  all  done  for  me  without 
word  or  hint  from  me,  and  Peel  tells  me  I “ need  not  by 
it  be  fettered  in  the  public  expression  of  any  opinion  I 
choose  to  take  up”;  so,  if  I take  a pique  against  the 
Queen,  or  the  Court,  or  Peel  himself,  I may,  if  I will, 
bully  them  with  as  much  freedom,  tho’  not  perhaps  quite 
so  gracefully,  as  if  I were  still  unpensioned.  Something 
in  that  word  “ pension  ” sticks  in  my  gizzard ; it  is  only 
the  name,  and  perhaps  would  “ smell  sweeter  ” by  some 
other.  I feel  the  least  bit  possible  Miss  Martineauish 
about  it.  You  know  she  refused  one,  saying  she  “should 
be  robbing  the  people  who  did  not  make  laws  for 
themselves  ” : however  that  is  nonsense  : her  non-accept- 
ance of  the  pension  did  not  save  the  people  a stiver,  and 
meantime  (what  any  one  would  have  thought  must  have 
been  more  offensive  to  her  feelings)  her  friends  sub- 
scribed for  her  and  kept  her  from  want.  If  the  people 
did  make  laws  for  themselves,  if  these  things  went  by 
universal  suffrage,  what  literary  man  ever  would  get  a 
lift,  it  being  known  that  the  mass  of  Englishmen  have  as 
much  notion  of  poetry  as  I of  fox-hunting?  Meantime 
there  is  some  meaning  in  having  a gentleman  and  a 
classic  at  the  head  of  affairs,  who  may  now  and  then 
direct  the  stream  of  public  bounty  to  us,  poor  devils, 
whom  the  Grundyites  would  not  only  not  remunerate, 
but  kick  out  of  society  as  barely  respectable  ; for  Calliope 
herself,  as  I have  heard,  never  kept  a gig  but  walks 
barefoot  about  the  sacred  hill,  no  better  than  an  Irish- 
woman. 

I wish  the  causelessly  bitter  against  me  and  mine  no 
worse  punishment  than  that  they  could  read  the  very 
flattering  letter  Peel  wrote  me  ; let  us  leave  them  in 
their  limbo 

“ Non  ragionam  di  lor,  ma  guarda  e passa.” 

15—2 


228 


LETTERS  1 842- 1 845 . 


[l845 


Peel’s  letter  I would  send  you  if  I had  it,  but  I have  sent 
it  to  Hallam,  and  told  him  to  keep  it  till  I see  him. 
I wrote  to  Rogers  thanking  him  for  his  kindness.  I 
thought  he  must  have  been  mentioning  me  to  Peel.  He 
wrote  me  back  a very  pretty  answer  which  I send  Sophy 
for  an  autograph  of  the  old  Bard  ; would  any  one  think 
that  pretty  little  hand  was  written  by  a man  somewhere 
between  eighty  and  ninety? 

Now,  Sophy,  if  as  a matron  you  do  not  care  for 
autographs,  or  intend  to  lose  it  or  give  it  away,  why  let 
me  have  it  back  again  for  I have  some  value  for  it ; 
particularly  as  the  old  man  and  I fell  out  one  wet  day  in 
Pall  Mall  about  half  a year  ago,  when  I said  something 
that  offended  him,  and  his  face  flushed  and  he  plucked 
his  arm  out  of  mine  and  told  me  I was  “ affecting  the 
smart,”  and  since  then  I haven’t  seen  him.  How  is 
“ Mamma,”  you  do  not  say  a word  about  her  health  and 
I want  to  know,  for  she  was  always  like  a mother  to  me  ? 
I wonder  whether  she  recollects  my  playing  the  drunken 
son  at  Bristol.  Many  a pleasant  talk  have  I had  with 
her,  and  I much  regret  that  I cannot  come  and  see  you 
now.  Tell  Mundy  I retain  a lively  recollection  of  his 
puns  ; and  remember  me  to  Coltman  (George  I mean), 
who  always  seemed  to  me  a real  good  fellow.  I recollect 
his  sending  me,  when  I lived  at  Boxley,  a book  of  poems 
by  a friend.  I forget  now  what  my  answer  was,  but  I 
hope  I said  nothing  to  hurt  him  or  his  friend’s  feelings. 
If  you  knew  what  a nuisance  these  volumes  of  verse  are ! 
Rascals  send  me  their’s  per  post  from  America,  and  I 
have  more  than  once  been  knocked  up  out  of  bed  to 
pay  three  or  four  shillings  for  books  of  which  I can’t  get 
thro’  one  page,  for  of  all  books  the  most  insipid  reading 
is  second-rate  verse.  Blue  books,  red  books,  almanacks, 
peerages,  anything  is  better.  See  ! how  I keep  chatter- 
ing, just  as  if  I were  sitting  by  your  fireside,  in  the  little 
book-room,  pipe  in  hand. 


1845]  “A  YOUNG  JUPITER.”  229 

I shall  not  be  in  London  in  November,  for  I have 
only  just  returned  from  thence,  but  do  you  never  by  any 
chance  mean  to  come  and  visit  us  ? Are  we  in  these 
days,  who  live  East  and  West,  to  be  as  badly  off  as  if  we 
lived  one  at  each  Ind,  or  in  the  heart  of  the  eighteenth 
century  ? Come  and  see  us,  you  can  do  it  some  time, 
going  to  or  from  the  Hallidays,  and  we  shall  be  at  least 
as  glad  to  see  you  as  they.  Why  don’t  you  clip  a few 
days  from  them  and  let  us  have  the  advantage  ? Here 
is  a handsome  town  of  thirty-five  thousand  inhabitants, 
a polka-parson-worshipping  place,  of  which  the  Rev. 
Francis  Close  is  Pope,  besides  pumps  and  pumprooms, 
chalybeates,  quadrilles  (as  you  have  taken  to  them  again), 
and  one  of  the  prettiest  countries  in  Great  Britain.  My 
mother  would  be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  the  girls 
would  coax  you,  and  make  so  much  of  you,  you  would 
feel  yourself  in  a new  planet.  Edmund  Lushington  and 
Cissy  have  been  with  us  and  have  just  gone  on  to 
Glasgow.  Their  little  one  looks  like  a young  Jupiter 
with  his  head  full  of  Greek : but  she,  poor  thing,  was 
out  of  health,  and  dreaded  the  winter  in  Glasgow,  which 
does  not  agree  with  her. 

Tell  Edward  and  Drummond  that  I expected  them 
to  have  called  on  me  the  day  after  I met  them  at 
Moxon’s,  and  I was  very  savage.  Remember  me  to 
them  with  all  kindness  and  to  “ Mamma  ” and  Sophy  ; 
and  not  me  only  but  all  of  us  here  to  all  of  you  there  (if 
that’s  sense). 

Now  dinner’s  ready  and  I must  say  Good  bye. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

A.  Tennyson. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

SWITZERLAND  1846,  AND  LETTERS  1846-47, 


Journal  kept  in  Manuscript-book  of  “Princess.” 


(“Come  down,  O maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height”  was  written 
during  this  tour  among  the  Alps.) 


1846.  Went  on  a tour  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  and  in 
August  to  Switzerland  with  Edward  Moxon. 

August  'ind.  Up  at  4 to  go  by  “Princess  Maude.” 
Picturesque  sunrise  from  the  pier.  Bruges.  Englishman 
with  moustache  told  us  of  festival  at  Bruges.  I go  down 
into  fore-cabin  and  get  the  very  worst  breakfast  I ever 
had  in  my  life.  Arrival  at  Ostend.  Order  from  Belgian 
king  that  no  passports  need  be  shown.  Inhuman 
conduct  and  supererogatory  fury  of  porters.  We  lose 
our  presence  of  mind  and  run  for  it,  but  there  is  plenty 
of  time.  Arrive  at  Bruges,  walk  to  Hotel  de  Ble, 
recommended  by  moustached  Englishman,  missing  the 
conveyance  thitherward,  which,  marked  with  gilt  letters 
Fleur  de  Ble,  rolls  by  us  as  we  near  our  hotel.  Great 
rejoicings  of  the  people  and  hero-worship  of  Simon 


230 


1846] 


TOUR  IN  SWITZERLAND. 


231 


Stevin  \ S on  the  banners,  and  names,  busts  and  statues 
of  all  the  Flanders  great  men,  statesmen,  sculptors,  poets, 
etc.  in  an  inner  square  within  the  great  square.  Horse- 
men riding  in  a circle  for  prize.  High  tower  and  clock 
in  great  square,  picturesque  groups  in  Cathedral,  motioned 
from  the  seats  we  had  taken  opposite  pulpit,  depart  to 
F.  de  Ble,  dinner  in  salle  — affected  Englishwoman  whom 
I took  for  Beige  or  German  opposite,  hot  nervous  night 
with  me.  Man  “ hemmed  ” overhead  enough  to  shake 
the  walls  of  Jericho. 

August  3rd.  Off  to  Grand  Hotel  de  Flandre,  monkey, 
pleasant  folk,  commissionaire,  pharmacien  and  opticien. 
J.  Arteveld’s  house,  town-hall  very  fine,  musee  not  good, 
go  to  Louvain,  Hotel  de  Suede,  new  town-hall,  old  cafe, 
row  of  poplars,  nervous  night. 

August  \th.  Off  to  Liege,  two  sons  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  Hotel  d’Angleterre  good,  money  changed,  too 
soon  for  rail  which  came  very  late,  pretty  scenery, 
Chaudefontaine,  old  man  and  little  boy,  railway  bordered 
with  young  acacias.  Cologne,  Hotel  de  Cologne,  rooms 
overlooking  moonlit  Rhine,  hotel  full  of  light  and  festival, 
pillaring  its  lights  in  the  quiet  water,  bridge  of  boats, 
three  steamers  lying  quietly  below  windows,  not  quite 
four  hours’  sleep. 

August  $tk.  Woke  at  5 or  earlier,  clash  and  clang 
of  steamboat  departure  under  me,  walk  on  the  quay, 
Cathedral  splendid  but  to  my  mind  too  narrow  for  its 
length. 


“Gaspar  and  Melchior  and  Balthazar 
Came  to  Cologne  on  the  broad-breasted  Rhine 
And  founded  there  a temple  which  is  yet 
A fragment,  but  the  wonder  of  the  world.” 


1 Born  in  the  sixteenth  century  at  Bruges,  and  a great  mathematician  and 
mechanic. 


232  SWITZERLAND  1 846.  [l84<5 

Embark,  the  bore  of  the  Rhine,  three  Hyde  Park 
drawling  snobs,  deck  very  hot,  Nonnenwerth  and  Drach- 
enfels,  sad  recollections ; Coblentz,  horrid  row,  king 
of  Holland,  shuffled  off  to  the  Rheinischerhof,  stupid 
hotel.  Coblentz  as  hateful  as  it  was  long  years  before, 
over  the  bridge  to  the  Cheval  Blanc,  coffee  there,  back 
again,  the  bridge  opening  islanded  us  in  the  river. 

August  bth.  Off  again  by  boat,  three  drawlers  de- 
parted at  Mainz,  talk  about  language  with  Germans,  sad 
old  city  of  Worms  among  poplars,  reach  Mannheim, 
Hotel  de  1’Europe,  take  a dark  walk  among  shrubberies 
with  M. 

August  jtk.  Early  next  morning  off  by  rail  to  Kehl, 
confusion  about  the  two  railways,  douane,  stop  and  see 
Cathedral,  nave  magnificent,  rail  to  Basle,  Three  Kings, 
green  swift  Rhine  roaring  against  the  piers,  Swiss 
fountain. 

August  8th.  Cafe  in  room,  off  by  diligence  to 
Lucerne,  vines,  agreeable  Swiss  young  lady  to  whom 

1 quoted  Goethe  and  she  spouted  William  Tell ’ sorry 
to  lose  her,  see  Righi  and  Pilatus  in  the  distance,  walk 
before  diligence  but  get  in  again,  pass  bridge  over  swift 
green  stream,  bureau,  go  to  Schweizerhof,  room  at 
top  of  house,  look  out  in  the  night  and  see  the  lake 
marbled  with  clouds,  gabble  of  servants,  bad  night. 

August  gth.  Walk  up  the  hill  above  the  town, 
churchyard,  innumerable  gilt  crosses,  go  to  a villa,  lie 
on  the  grass,  return  a different  way  from  M.,  cross  a 
part  of  the  lake,  walk  back. 

August  10th.  Strolled  about  the  painted  bridges, 
M.  met  his  friend,  we  bought  Keller’s  map,  off  by 

2 o’clock  steamer  to  Weggis,  hired  a horse  up  the  Righi, 
looked  over  and  saw  the  little  covers  and  wooded  shores 
and  villages  under  vast  red  ribs  of  rock,  very  fine,  dis- 
missed my  horse  at  the  Bains  where  we  entered  with 
an  Englishman  and  found  peasants  waltzing,  gave  two 


1846] 


RETURN  TO  ENGLAND. 


233 


francs  to  boy  who  had  ordered  beds,  summit,  crowd  of 
people,  very  feeble  sunset,  tea,  infernal  chatter  as  of 
innumerable  apes. 

August  1 ith.  Sunrise,  strange  look  of  clouds  packed 
on  the  lake  of  Egeri,  far  off  Jungfrau  looking  as  if 
delicately  pencilled.  Rossberg,  Klissnacht,  breakfast, 
began  to  descend  at  9,  strange  aspect  of  hill,  cloud,  and 
snow,  as  if  the  mountains  were  on  fire,  watch  the 
clouds  opening  and  shutting  as  we  go  down,  and  making 
framed  pictures  of  the  lake,  etc.,  long  hot  descent,  dined 
at  Weggis,  landlady  takes  me  out  to  select  live  fish  for 
dinner,  I am  too  tender-hearted  so  we  go  without  fish, 
boat  touches,  off  to  Fluelen,  very  sleepy,  carriage  road 
to  Italy,  Tells  chapel,  go  in  to  church,  return  to  Sweiz- 
erhof. 

August  12 th.  Lake,  guide  and  boat  to  Alpnach, 
hire  voiture  up  the  vale  of  Sarnen,  walk  a little  before, 
get  in,  nothing  very  remarkable,  arrive  at  Lungern, 
pretty  green  Alpine  “ thal  ” shut  in  with  steep  cliffs,  one 
long  waterfall,  jolly  old  Radical  who  abused  Dr  Arnold, 
over  the  hills  to  Meyringen,  home  (after  having  seen 
Lauterbrunnen  and  the  Bernese  Alps,  the  best  things 
in  the  tour). 


To  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

Cheltenham,  Nov.  12 th,  1846. 

Well,  Moxon  went  to  Switzerland;  saw  Blanc,  he  was 
very  sulky,  kept  his  nightcap  on,  doff’d  it  one  morning 
when  I was  knocked  up  out  of  bed  to  look  at  him  at  four 
o’clock,  the  glance  I gave  did  not  by  any  means  repay  me 
for  the  toil  of  travelling  to  see  him.  Two  other  things 
I did  see  in  Switzerland,  the  stateliest  bits  of  landskip 


234  SWITZERLAND  1 846,  AND  LETTERS  1 846-47.  [l846 

I ever  saw,  one  was  a look  down  on  the  valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen  while  we  were  descending  from  the  Wengern 
Alp,  the  other  a view  of  the  Bernese  Alps : don’t  think 
that  I am  going  to  describe  them.  Let  it  suffice  that 
I was  so  satisfied  with  the  size  of  crags  that  (Moxon  being 
gone  on  before  in  vertigo  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the 
guide)  I laughed  by  myself.  I was  satisfied  with  the  size 
of  crags,  but  mountains,  great  mountains  disappointed 
me.  # # # # j called  on  Dickens  at  Lausanne  who 
was  very  hospitable,  and  gave  us  biscuits  (a  rare  luxury 
on  the  Continent,  not  such  as  are  sweet  and  soft,  but 
hard  and  unsweet)  and  a flask  of  Liebfraumilch,  which 
is  being  interpreted  “ Virginis  lac,”  as  I dare  say  you 
know. 

I have  just  got  Festus  ; order  it  and  read.  You  will 
most  likely  find  it  a great  bore,  but  there  are  really  very 
grand  things  in  Festus . 


Ever  thine,  A.  T. 


Letters  to  Mrs  Burton  (the  wife  of  the  patron  of 
Dr  Tennyson  s living  of  Somersby). 


1846. 

My  dear  Mrs  Burton, 

Nothing  could  be  sweeter  than  Cathy’s 
Somersby  violets,  and  doubt  not  but  that  I shall  keep 
them  as  a sacred  treasure.  The  violets  of  one’s  native 
place  gathered  by  the  hands  of  a pure  innocent  child 
must  needs  be  precious  to  me,  and  indeed  I would  have 
acknowledged  the  receipt  of  them  and  sent  her  a thou- 
sand loves  and  kisses  before  now,  but  there  were  several 


HIS  LOVE  OF  CHILDREN. 


235 


1846] 

reasons  why  I did  not  write  which  it  is  of  no  use  troub- 
ling you  with ; only  I pray  you  kiss  her  for  me  very 
sweetly  on  lip  and  cheek  and  forehead,  and  assure  her 
of  my  gratitude.  I love  all  children,  but  I loved  little 
Cathy  par  excellence  by  a kind  of  instinct  when  I saw 
her  first.  Do  as  you  choose  about  the  miniatures,  but 
I am  told  that  you  have  had  illness  in  your  house  and 
it  would  make  me  uncomfortable  to  cause  you  any  kind 
of  trouble.  I am  here  in  London  on  a visit  to  a friend 
of  mine  at  6 Michaels  Grove,  Brompton.  People  fete 
and  dine  me  every  day  but  I am  somewhat  unwell  and 
out  of  spirits : meanwhile  I trust  that  your  own  health 
is  improved,  and  that  you  are  prosperous  and  happy. 
Farewell  and  believe  me 

Ever  yours  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 


My  dear  Mrs  Burton, 

The  miniatures  which  you  have  sent  me  we 
will  treasure  as  precious  memorials  of  our  shortlived 
acquaintanceship : not  that  they  do  either  you  or  the 
child  full  justice.  Nature  without  doubt  has  been  much 
more  bountiful  to  you  both  than  the  artist:  however  the 
portraits  are  not  unlike  and  moreover  well-painted.  I 
am  sorry  to  learn  from  some  fragments  of  your  letter 
to  Emily,  which  she  read  to  me,  that  you  are  not 
altogether  satisfied  with  the  world  about  you.  Pray 
keep  up  your  spirits  in  the  wilderness  of  Lincolnshire. 
I trust  that  we  shall  all  meet  again,  and  meanwhile  may 
your  New  Year  be  happy.  Truly  do  I wish  it  may  be 
so.  You  know  wise  men  say  that  our  happiness  lies 
in  our  own  hands : and  therefore  do  you  make  the  best 
of  things  about  you,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  husband 
and  children,  but  of  your  friends  here,  who  live  in  the 


236  LETTERS  1846-47.  [l846 

hope  of  re-seeing  you,  among  whom  count  upon  myself 
as  ever  yours  truly, 

A.  Tennyson. 


My  dear  Mrs  Burton, 

I am  very  much  grieved  that  your  letter 
reached  me  so  late.  I had  left  Umberslade  and  was 
visiting  at  two  or  three  places  in  Warwickshire,  and  as 
I had  given  orders  for  any  letter  that  came  to  be  for- 
warded to  Cheltenham,  I have  only  just  now  on  arriving 
received  yours.  I shall  be  very  happy  to  be  god-father 
to  your  little  one,  and  so  I am  sure  will  Charles ; he  is 
not  here  but  in  town,  but  he  shall  be  written  to  to-day, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  of  his  compliance  with  your  kind 
and  flattering  proposal : only  you  must  take  his  consent 
for  granted,  as  it  is  impossible  for  us  or  you  to  receive 
an  answer  before  the  time  specified : nor  for  many 
reasons  can  either  he  or  I attend  in  person  : I am  sorry 
that  all  this  has  so  happened.  Call  your  child  Alfred 
if  you  will : he  was  born  in  the  same  house,  perhaps  the 
same  chamber,  as  myself,  and  I trust  he  is  destined  to 
a far  happier  life  than  mine  has  been,  poor  little  fellow ! 
Give  him  a kiss  for  his  god-father,  and  one  to  Cathy  for 
her  violets  which  I received  and  cherished : or  if  one  do 
not  seem  enough,  give  them  by  the  dozen.  I am  glad 
that  you  like  the  miniature.  The  papers  spoke  the  truth 
about  Umberslade  but  they  fibbed  when  they  said  I was 
about  to  publish.  What  would  be  the  use  of  that  in  a 
general  election  ? I am  writing  in  a great  hurry  to  save 
the  Northern  post,  so  I bid  you  good-bye, 


A.  Tennyson. 


1846] 


LETTER  TO  MARY  HOWTTT. 


237 


2 St  James’  St.,  Buckingham  Gate. 

Wednesday,  May  1 7 th. 

My  dear  Mrs  Burton, 

I have  sent  a silver  cup  for  my  little  godson. 
I had  intended  to  have  sent  it  many  a long  month  ago, 
but  somehow  or  other  I let  the  days  slip  on  without  doing 
so ; for  this  I beg  his  pardon,  which  he  must  grant  me 
as  soon  as  he  can  babble.  I trust  that  you  will  receive 
the  cup  at  the  same  time  with  this  letter.  I hope  that 
you  are  well  and  happy  during  this  fine  weather  which 
makes  me  wish  myself  far  away  out  of  smoky  London. 
Best  love  to  my  dear  little  violet-girl,  and  believe  me 
always,  dear  Mrs  Burton, 

Yours  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 


Letters  to  Mrs  Howitt . 


[1846.] 

My  dear  Mrs  Howitt, 

The  day  you  mention  was  at  least  as  pleasant 
to  myself  as  to  you ; one,  indeed,  not  easily  to  be  for- 
gotten. Clapton  is  henceforth  to  be  remembered  with 
higher  and  other  than  cockney  associations,  it  is  no 
longer  the  London  suburb  but  the  home  of  Mary  Howitt. 
As  for  the  morning  dresses,  did  I notice  them  ? if  I did, 
what  matter?  they  were  a compliment  to  myself. 

Your  book  from  Longman  has  not  yet  arrived ; but 
when  it  does,  since  (however  you  may  please  to  de- 
preciate beforehand)  it  must  have  something  of  you 


LETTERS  1846-47. 


238 


[ 1846 


about  it,  I will  give  it  a hearty  welcome  and  my  best 
attention. 

I got  your  letter  yesterday,  and  I have  had  so  much 
to  do  in  the  interim  that  I have  merely  glanced  over  the 
extracts.  They  seem  to  me  to  be  very  clever  and  full 
of  a noble  19th  century-ism  (if  you  will  admit  such  a 
word),  but  whether  not  too  fantastic,  if  considered  as  an 
explanation  of  the  Mosaic  text,  may  I think  admit  of 
doubt.  Meanwhile  I hail  all  such  attempts  as  heralding 
a grander  and  more  liberal  state  of  opinion,  and  conse- 
quently sweeter  and  nobler  modes  of  living.  There  was 
no  more  sea , says  St  John  in  Revelation.  I wonder 
your  friend  did  not  quote  that : perhaps  he  does  in  some 
other  part  of  his  book.  I remember  reading  that  when 
a child,  and  not  being  able  to  reconcile  myself  to  a future 
when  there  should  be  no  more  sea. 

I am  going  up  to  Cambridge  to-morrow  to  be  present 
at  the  commemoration  of  the  founding  of  Trinity  College 
300  years  ago.  There  is  to  be  a great  dinner  in  Hall, 
and  as  I have  got  a special  invitation  from  my  old 
Tutor,  now  the  Master,  I am  going;  the  22nd  is  the 
dinner-day.  I have  just  left  myself  time  to  get  there; 
think  of  me  to-morrow  night  as  passing  within  two  or 
three  miles  of  you  on  the  Eastern  C.  R.,  perhaps  not  so 
far,  and  again  sweeping  back  a day  or  two  after  on  my 
return  yet  not  able  to  stop,  divers  duties  calling  me 
home  with  voices  of  undeniable  authority.  I ought  not 
to  go  at  all  but  old  recollections  drag  me.  However 
sometime  betwixt  the  death  of  Spring  and  the  birth  of 
Summer  I do  hope  to  see  you  once  more. 

I partly  guess  your  mysterious  request.  Mr  Howitt’s 
surprise  at  the  hyacinths  is  a very  pretty  household 
picture.  I wish  that  we  Englanders  dealt  more  in  such 
symbols,  that  we  drest  our  affections  up  in  a little  more 
poetical  costume;  real  warmth  of  heart  would  lose  nothing, 
rather  gain  by  it.  As  it  is,  our  manners  are  as  cold  as 


1846] 


FREILIGRATH. 


239 


the  walls  of  our  churches.  Good-bye,  dear  Mrs  Howitt, 
say  everything  kind  for  me  to  husband  and  daughter  and 
trust  me 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 


10  St  James’  Square,  Cheltenham. 

Nov. 

Dear  Mrs  Howitt, 

Your  kind  letter  gave  me  very  sincere  pleas- 
ure, and  I shall  be  most  happy  to  meet  Mr  Dempster 
under  your  roof  when  I come  to  town.  I did  not  hear 
the  Hutchinsons1  when  they  were  in  England  and  I 
regret  it.  I am  sure  Abby  must  have  sung  divinely  for 
everyone  says  she  did.  I can  scarce  help  fancying  that 
the  female  voice  is  more  suited  by  nature  to  the  singing 
of  such  poems  than  any  man’s,  but  I am  wrong,  for  you 
tell  me  that  Mr  Dempster  sings  quite  as  exquisitely  as 
Abby.  I should  have  been  in  town  before  now  but 
several  little  matters  have  occurred  to  hinder  me. 
Among  other  things  I sent  an  invitation  to  the  German 
poet,  Freiligrath : he  has  translated  some  of  my  poems 
and  he  sent  me  his  book  thro’  my  publisher:  the  letter 
to  Moxon  was  dated  from  Mrs  Leigh’s,  Clapton  Pond ; 
do  you  know  such  a person  ? I have  got  no  answer  and 
I am  puzzled  by  his  silence.  Perhaps  he  may  not  be  in 
England,  after  all,  but  every  time  the  postman  knocks  I 
expect  to  hear  from  him  and  that  he  is  coming.  I will 
send  you  word  of  my  arrival  in  town. 


1 American  ladies  who  were  noted  singers. 


A.  T. 


240 


LETTERS  1846-47. 


[l847 


Letters  to  Edward  Moxon . 


( After  the  tour  in  Switzerland) 


My  dear  Moxon, 


1846. 


I got  your  parcel  and  bluebell  this  morning 
and  a letter  from  a man  who  seems  deserving  and  in 
difficulties ; he  has  asked  me  to  lend  him  four  pounds, 
which  I have  promised  to  give  him,  and  referred  him  to 
you.  So  let  him  have  that  sum  if  he  calls  with  my 
letter:  his  name  is  R.  C.  W. 


Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson1. 


Second  visit  to  Dr  Gully  s water  cure. 

Umberslade  Hall,  Birmingham,  1847. 

Tuesday  afternoon. 

My  dear  Moxon, 

I wish  you  would  make  up  your  mind  to 
come  down  on  Saturday  and  see  me  here.  You  could 
come  down  by  the  express  as  I did  in  three  hours  to 
Birmingham,  and  any  of  the  cabs  at  the  station  would 
bring  you  on : here  is  a Hall  in  a pleasant  park,  and  you 
would  be  all  the  better  for  a Sunday’s  mouthful  of  fresh 
air.  We  can  give  you  a bed  here  and  you  should  do 
just  as  you  like.  I want  to  talk  with  you.  I find  it  very 

1 Whenever  any  literary  man  u deserving  and  in  difficulties  ” applied  to 
him  for  money,  he  always  endeavoured  to  help  him.  To  the  day  of  his 
death  he  continued  this  practice. 


LETTER  TO  EDWARD  MOXON. 


241 


1847] 


difficult  to  correct  proofs  under  the  treatment  \ but  you 
shall  have  them  all  back  with  you  on  Monday;  don’t 
show  them  to  people.  I have  not  at  all  settled  whether 
I shall  publish  them  now  or  in  the  Autumn,  yet  an 
Edinburgh  paper  mentions  that  I have  a poem  in  the 
press.  Confound  the  publicities  and  gabblements  of  the 
19th  century!  Now,  I hope  you  will  come.  If  you  do, 
bring  two  copies  of  my  poems  with  you,  two  persons  in 
this  house  want  them ; if  you  don’t  come  (but  I hope 
you  will)  send  two.  The  printers  are  awful  zanies,  they 
print  erasures  and  corrections  too,  and  other  sins  they 
commit  of  the  utmost  inhumanity.  Come ! Send  a line 
first. 


Yours  ever, 


A.  Tennyson. 


To  Rev . H.  Rawnsley . 

Park  House,  Maidstone. 

April  i6lh,  1847. 

My  dear  Rawnsley, 

Many  thanks  for  your  very  kind  letter,  which 
was  grateful  to  me  as  showing  that  I am  not  forgotten 

1 From  Umberslade  my  father  writes  to  Mrs  Russell:  “They  tell  me  not 
to  read,  not  to  think ; but  they  might  as  well  tell  me  not  to  live.  I lack 
something  of  the  woman’s  long-enduring  patience  in  these  matters.  It  is  a 
terribly  long  process,  but  then  what  price  is  too  high  for  health,  and  health 
of  mind  is  so  involved  with  health  of  body...  I wish  you  could  find  time  in 
the  course  of  the  summer  to  come  over  and  see  us.  We  should  be  so 
happy  to  see  you.  We  expect  my  mother  from  Scotland  in  a few  days’ 
time.  She  comes  as  far  as  Birmingham  with  Cecilia  and  the  Professor 
(Lushington) . The  latter  go  on  to  Park  House,  Lushington’s  seat  near 
Maidstone ; and  Charles  goes  to  bring  my  mother  here.  Of  her  kindness 
and  true-heartedness  I am  sure  you  never  had  any  doubt,  and  therefore  I 
need  not  say  anything  of  the  joyful  welcome  she  would  give  you.  She  has 
been  much  grieved  just  now  with  the  loss  of  her  cousin,  Mr  Wheeldon  of 
Market  Street  near  St  Albans.  A purer  Christian,  a better  man,  never 
lived.  He  was  like  her,  for  he  had  not  a touch  of  gall  in  his  whole  nature. 
Peace  be  with  him.” 


t.  1. 


1: 


2\2  LETTERS  1 846-47.  [l847 

amongst  you ; not  that  I wanted  any  proof  of  that,  but 
still  it  is  pleasant  to  have  assurance  doubly  sure.  You 
would  have  been  answered  before  had  I not  been  away 
from  home,  lying  sick  of  more  than  one  ailment  at  a 
friend’s  chamber  in  the  Temple,  from  whence  the  other 
day  I came  on  here  partly  for  change  of  air  and  partly 
because  I had  promised  to  pay  a farewell  visit  to  my 
brother-in-law’s  brother,  Harry  Lushington.  He  is  going 
out  to  Malta  as  secretary  to  the  Maltese  government,  a 
post  of  (I  believe)  about  ^1500  a year  and  one  which  he 
is  quite  clever  enough  to  occupy  with  credit  to  himself ; 
but  bein^  a man  of  feeble  stamina  he  is  afraid  of  the 
climate  and  altogether  down  in  the  mouth  about  it,  so  I 
came  to  see  the  last  of  him  before  he  went,  and  do  my 
best  to  set  him  up.  I am  much  grieved  to  hear  of  your 
rheumatism.  I fear  this  bitter  April  is  very  unfavour- 
able and  the  east  wind  which  comes  sweeping  from  the 
sea  over  your  marshes  to  Halton.  H.  L.  goes  some 
time  next  week,  and  till  then  I must  be  here,  so  that 
I fear  that  what  with  this  and  my  illness  a journey  into 
Lincolnshire  so  as  to  catch  all  your  “clan”  in  full  con- 
clave is  quite  impossible.  Well,  I can’t  help  it,  I love 
my  old  friends  as  much  as  ever;  recent  friendships  may 
be  broken  thro’  but  old  ones  early-made  are  a part  of 
one’s  blood  and  bones.  I say  my  old  friendships  are  as 
dear  as  ever,  but  that  you  must  accept  this  protestation 
in  lieu  of  my  personal  presence  and  not  be  hard  of  faith 
but  believing. 

Give  my  kindest  love  to  each  and  all  of  the  “ old 
familiar  faces,”  and 

Believe  me  always  yours  truly, 


A.  Tennyson. 


1847] 


LETTER  TO  MRS  RUSSELL. 


243 


To  Mrs  Russell ' 

10  St  James’  Square,  Cheltenham. 

Saturday  evening.  [ Undated.~\ 

My  dearest  Aunt, 

I have  received  your  welcome  note  and 
cheque  and  had  hoped  to  have  a better  account  of  your 
eyes.  Those  “animals1”  you  mention  are  very  dis- 
tressing and  mine  increase  weekly  : in  fact  I almost  look 
forward  with  certainty  to  being  blind  some  of  these  days. 
I have  however  no  sort  of  inflammation  to  complain  of, 
it  is  all  failing  nerve.  I have  no  great  opinion  of  the 
salubrity  of  Leamington,  and  as  for  this  place  it  is  often 
as  muggy  and  turbid  as  London  itself.  “ Much  company  ” 
and  after-dinner  “ talk  of  roads,”  etc.  are  not  much  in 
your  favour,  but  why  do  all  English  country  gentlemen 
talk  of  dogs,  horses,  roads,  crops  etc.  ? It  is  better  after 
all  than  affecting  Art  and  Feeling:  they  would  make  a 
poor  hand  of  that,  though  you  tried  to  help  them  out. 
I wish  they  would  be  a little  kinder  to  the  poor.  I 
would  honour  them  then  and  they  might  talk  what  they 
would.  But  I am  rambling  and  moreover  getting  per- 
sonal on  the  squires,  which  perhaps  I have  no  business 
to  do,  for,  as  Hamlet  says,  “ use  every  man  after  his 
deserts  and  who  shall  scape  whipping  ? ” With  respect 
to  the  non-publication  of  those  poems  2 which  you  mention, 
it  is  partly  occasioned  by  the  considerations  you  speak 
of,  and  partly  by  my  sense  of  their  present  imperfectness  ; 
perhaps  they  will  not  see  the  light  till  I have  ceased  to 
be.  I cannot  tell  but  I have  no  wish  to  send  them  out 
yet.  Emily  wished  us  to  remember  her  kindly  to  you 

1 Muscce  volit antes. 

2 Probably  “In  Memoriam.” 

16 — 2 


244  LETTERS  1 846-47.  [l847 

when  she  was  here.  She  has  been  visiting  the  Lushing- 
tons  in  Kent,  and  is  now  with  the  Hallams  at  Clifton. 
I wonder  whether  you  can  read  this  scrawl,  my  pen  is  an 
old  steel  one  in  a state  of  hopeless  splittage  and  divari- 
cation. You  must  forgive  me  for  not  answering  you 
before  \ I have  no  excuse  to  offer  and  I fling  myself  on 
your  mercy.  Do  you  know,  I don’t  write  even  a note 
once  in  three  months.  I never  can  get  myself  set  down 
to  write,  and  I am  in  arrears  of  correspondence  with  all 
the  world.  Goodbye,  dearest  Aunt.  Mother,  sisters 
etc.  send  lots  of  love  to  you  and  Emma. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 

P.S.  Have  you  read  Miss  Martineau  on  Mesmerism 
in  the  Athenceum  (two  of  them)?  I have  got  them  and 
if  you  like  I will  send  them  to  you.  They  are  very 
wonderful . 

In  1846  the  fourth  edition  of  the  Poems  was  pub- 
lished : and,  having  been  bitterly  attacked  by  Lytton 
Bulwer  because  Peel  had  placed  him  on  the  Pension 
list,  my  father  contributed  to  Punch  the  only  personal 
satire  he  ever  wrote,  “ The  New  Timon  and  the  Poets,” 
February  28th;  followed  by  an  “After-thought2,”  March 
7th.  About  these  poems  he  left  a note : 

“ I never  wrote  a line  against  anyone  but  Sir  Edward 
Lytton  Bulwer.  His  lines  did  not  move  me  to  do  so. 
But  at  the  very  time  he  was  writing  or  had  written  these 
he  was  visiting  my  cousins,  the  d’Eyncourts,  and  said  to 
them,  ‘ How  much  I should  like  to  know  your  cousin 


1 He  said  he  could  not  devote  himself  to  his  work  and  write  letters  also, 
so  he  gave  up  writing  to  friends  and  relations. 

2 Published  afterwards  under  the  title  of  “ Literary  Squabbles.1' 


1847]  “ODIUM  LITERARIUM.”  245 

Alfred  ’ ; and  I,  going  into  a book-club  in  the  town  where 
I was  then  living,  found  a newspaper  turned  up  and 
folded  so  that  I could  not  miss,  ‘ See  how  Sir  Edward 
tickles  up  the  poetasters  and  their  patrons.’  The  stupid 
insignificant  paper,  and  the  purpose  with  which  it  had 
been  set  before  me,  provoked  me.  I saw  afterwards  a 
letter  which  he  wrote  to  my  friend  John  Forster. 
Moreover,  he  stated  in  a note  that  I belonged  to  a very 
rich  family.  The  younger  son,  his  friend,  who  had 
inherited  was  rich  enough,  but  the  elder  branch  was  shut 
out  in  the  cold,  and  at  that  time  I had  scarce  anything. 
Moreover,  I remembered  that  he  had  said  ‘If  a man  be 
attacked,  let  him  attack.’ 

Wretched  work.  Odium  literarium.” 

My  father  added : “ I never  sent  my  lines  to  Punch. 
John  Forster  did.  They  were  too  bitter.  I do  not  think 
that  I should  ever  have  published  them.” 


/►wre. 


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f in.  tfa  | 7^X  fayf  f£*st  Asia-  7lo  tnnz. 


From  the  Original  MS. 


246 


CHAPTER  XII. 
“THE  PRINCESS.” 


Maybe  wildest  dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth. 


O lift  your  natures  up: 
Embrace  our  aims : work  out  your  freedom ! 


There  are  thousands  now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them  down; 

It  is  but  bringing  up;  no  more  than  that. 


“I  say  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world.” 

“ Parson,”  said  I,  “ you  pitch  the  pipe  too  low.” 


What  someone  called  the  “herald-melody”  of  the 
higher  education  of  women,  “ The  Princess,”  mostly 
written  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields,  was  published  in  1847, 
and  at  this  time  “ The  Golden  Year”  was  added  to  the 
Poems.  The  subject  of  “ The  Princess,”  my  father 
believed,  was  original,  and  certainly  the  story  is  full  of 
original  incident,  humour  and  fancy1. 

It  may  have  suggested  itself  when  the  project  of 

1 Sir  William  Rowan  Hamilton,  the  great  mathematician,  said : u It 
deeply  presses  on  my  reflection  how  much  wiser  a book  is  Tennyson’s 
Princess  than  my  Quaternions .” 


247 


248  “THE  PRINCESS.”  [l847 

a Women’s  College  was  in  the  air1,  or  it  may  have 
arisen  in  its  mock-heroic  form  from  a Cambridge  joke, 
such  as  he  commemorated  in  these  lines,  which  I found 
in  one  of  his  old  MS  books  : 


The  Doctors  Daughter . ( Unpublished .) 

Sweet  Kitty  Sandilands, 

The  daughter  of  the  doctor, 

We  drest  her  in  the  Proctor’s  bands, 

And  past  her  for  the  Proctor. 

All  the  men  ran  from  her 

That  would  have  hasten’d  to  her, 

All  the  men  ran  from  her 

That  would  have  come  to  woo  her. 

Up  the  street  we  took  her 
As  far  as  to  the  Castle, 

Jauntily  sat  the  Proctor’s  cap 
And  from  it  hung  the  tassel. 

As  for  the  various  characters  in  the  poem,  they  give 
all  possible  views  of  Woman’s  higher  education;  and  as 
for  the  heroine  herself,  the  Princess  Ida,  the  poet  who 
created  her  considered  her  as  one  of  the  noblest  among 
his  women.  The  stronger  the  man  or  woman,  the  more 
of  the  lion  or  lioness  untamed,  the  greater  the  man  or 
woman  tamed.  In  the  end  we  see  this  lioness-like 
woman  subduing  the  elements  of  her  humanity  to  that 
which  is  highest  within  her,  and  recognizing  the  relation 
in  which  she  stands  towards  the  order  of  the  world  and 
toward  God  — 

A greater  than  all  knowledge  beat  her  down. 


1 He  talked  over  the  plan  of  the  poem  with  my  mother  in  1839. 


TWO  GREAT  SOCIAL  QUESTIONS. 


249 


1847] 

His  friends  report  my  father  to  have  said,  that  the  two 
great  social  questions  impending  in  England  were  “ the 
housing  and  education  of  the  poor  man  before  making 
him  our  master,  and  the  higher  education  of  women”; 
and  that  the  sooner  woman  finds  out,  before  the  great 
educational  movement  begins,  that  “ woman  is  not  un- 
developt  man,  but  diverse,”  the  better  it  will  be  for  the 
progress  of  the  world  1. 

There  have  not  been  wanting  those  who  have  deemed 
the  varied  characters  and  imagery  of  the  poem  wasted 
on  something  of  a fairy  tale  without  the  fairies  2.  But,  in 
this  instance  as  in  others  involving  the  supreme  meaning 
and  guidance  of  life,  a parable  is  perhaps  the  teacher 
that  can  most  surely  enter  in  at  all  doors. 

It  was  no  mere  dramatic  sentiment,  but  one  of  my 
father’s  strongest  convictions  of  the  true  relation  between 
man  and  woman,  which  impelled  him  to  write : 

Let  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal ; seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal:  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought, 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 

The  two-cell’d  heart  beating,  with  one  full  stroke, 
Life. 

1 Dawson,  the  Canadian  editor  of  “ The  Princess,”  writes : “ At  the  time 
of  the  publication  of  ‘ The  Princess1  the  surface-thought  of  England  was 
intent  solely  upon  Irish  famines,  corn-laws  and  free-trade.  It  was  only  after 
many  years  that  it  became  conscious  of  anything  being  wrong  in  the  position 
of  women...  No  doubt  such  ideas  were  at  the  time  ‘ in  the  air1  in  England, 
but  the  dominant,  practical  Philistinism  scoffed  at  them  as  ‘ ideas  1 banished 
to  America,  that  refuge  for  exploded  European  absurdities.” 

[I  believe  the  Vindication  of  the  Rights  of  Woman  by  Mary  (Wollstone- 
craft)  Godwin  (1792)  first  turned  the  attention  of  the  people  of  England 
to  the  “ wrongs  of  women.”] 

2 The  following  paragraphs  are  based  on  what  my  father  said  about 
the  poem. 


250  “THE  PRINCESS.”  [l847 

And  if  woman  in  her  appointed  place  “ stays  all  the 
fair  young  planet  in  her  hands,”  she  may  be  well  content. 
She  has  space  enough  to 

Burgeon  out  of  all 

Within  her  — let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 

She  must  train  herself  to  do  the  large  work  that  lies 
before  her,  even  though  she  may  not  be  destined  to  be 
wife  or  mother,  cultivating  her  understanding  not  her 
memory  only,  her  imagination  in  its  highest  phases,  her 
inborn  spirituality  and  her  sympathy  with  all  that  is 
pure,  noble  and  beautiful,  rather  than  mere  social  ac- 
complishments ; then  and  then  only  will  she  further 
the  progress  of  humanity,  then  and  then  only  men  will 
continue  to  hold  her  in  reverence. 

On  the  other  hand  one  of  the  poet’s  main  tests  of 
manhood  is  “ the  chivalrous  reverence  ” for  womanhood. 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 

Until  they  win  her;  for  indeed  I know 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a maid, 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 

But  teach  high  thought  and  amiable  words, 

And  courtliness  and  the  desire  of  fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a man. 

He  would  say,  “ I would  pluck  my  hand  from  a 
man  even  if  he  were  my  greatest  hero,  or  dearest  friend, 
if  he  wronged  a woman  or  told  her  a lie.” 

After  1847  “The  Princess  ” underwent  considerable 
alterations.  The  second  edition  was  published  in  1848 
with  a few  amendments,  and  dedicated  to  Henry 


THE  BLANK  VERSE  OF  “THE  PRINCESS.” 


25l 


Lushington,  but  in  1850  a third  edition  appeared  with 
omissions  and  many  additions,  and  notably  six  songs 
were  introduced,  which  help  to  express  more  clearly  the 
meaning  of  “ the  medley.” 

These  songs 

The  women  sang 

Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men, 

Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 

In  1851  the  “weird  seizures”  of  the  Prince  were 
inserted.  His  too  emotional  temperament  was  intended 
from  an  artistic  point  of  view  to  emphasize  his  com- 
parative want  of  power.  “ Moreover,”  my  father  writes, 
“ the  words  ‘ dream-shadow,’  ‘ were  and  were  not  ’ doubt- 
less refer  to  the  anachronisms  and  improbabilities  of  the 
story : compare  the  prologue, 

Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a dream, 
and  v.  466, 

And  like  a flash  the  weird  affection  came, 

AL.  *5/.,  AL.  AL.  -ML 

W *7v'  '7v‘  “7v  •a' 

I seem’d  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 

And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 

To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a dream.” 

“ It  may  be  remarked  that  there  is  scarcely  anything 
in  the  story  which  is  not  prophetically  glanced  at  in  the 
prologue.”  My  father  added:  “It  is  true  that  some  of 
the  blank  verse  in  this  poem  is  among  the  best  I ever 
wrote  ” — such  passages  as : 

Not  peace  she  look’d  — the  Head:  but  rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining  there 
Fixt  like  a beacon-tower  above  the  waves 


252  “THE  PRINCESS.”  [l847 

Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the  light 
Dash  themselves  dead.  She  stretch’d  her  arms  and 
call’d 

Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell  ; 

and  as  this  description  of  a storm  seen  from  Snowdon : 

As  one  that  climbs  a peak  to  gaze 
O’er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a great  black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a wall  of  night, 

Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore, 

And  suck  the  blinding  splendour  from  the  sand, 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake,  and  tarn  by  tarn, 
Expunge  the  world ; 

and  as  these  lines  from  the  last  canto : 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 

Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half-world ; 
Approach  and  fear  not;  breathe  upon  my  brows; 

In  that  fine  air  I tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.  Forgive  me, 
I waste  my  heart  in  signs : let  be.  My  bride, 

My  wife,  my  life.  O we  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 

And  so  thro’  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows. 

For  simple  rhythm  and  vowel  music  he  considered 
his  “ Come  down,  O maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height,” 
written  in  Switzerland  (chiefly  at  Lauterbrunnen  and 
Grindelwald),  and  descriptive  of  the  waste  Alpine  heights 
and  gorges,  and  of  the  sweet,  rich  valleys  below,  as 
amongst  his  “ most  successful  work .”  But  by  this  phrase 


1847]  NOTES  ON  “THE  PRINCESS.”  253 

he  meant  no  more  than  that  he  felt  he  had  done  his 
best:  there  was  no  tinge  of  vanity  in  it.  To  put  his 
own  poetry  in  favourable  comparison  with  that  of 
others  was  never  in  his  mind. 

He  said  that  “ The  passion  of  the  past,  the  abiding 
in  the  transient,  was  expressed  in  ‘Tears,  idle  Tears,’ 
which  was  written  in  the  yellowing  autumn-tide  at 
Tintern  Abbey,  full  for  me  of  its  bygone  memories. 
Few  know  that  it  is  a blank  verse  lyric.”  He  thought 
that  my  uncle  Charles’  sonnet  of  “Time  and  Twilight” 
had  the  same  sort  of  mystic,  damonisch  feeling. 

The  only  song  in  “ The  Princess  ” approved  by 
Fitzgerald  was  “ Blow,  Bugle,  Blow,”  commemorating 
the  echoes  at  Killarney  \ 

“ That  is  one  of  Fitz’s  crotchets,”  Fitzgerald  said  to 
me  in  1876,  “and  I am  considered  a great  heretic, 
because  like  Carlyle  I gave  up  all  hopes  of  him  after 
‘ The  Princess.’  ” He  wrote  once,  and  repeated  for  me 
in  his  MS  notes,  that  none  of  the  songs  had  “ the  old 
champagne  flavour,”  adding,  “Alfred  is  the  same  mag- 
nanimous, kindly  delightful  fellow  as  ever,  uttering  by 
far  the  finest  prose-sayings  of  anyone.”  Nothing  either 
by  Thackeray  or  by  my  father  met  Fitzgeralds  appro- 
bation unless  he  had  first  seen  it  in  manuscript. 

The  following  notes  on  “ The  Princess  ” were  left  by 
my  father : 

In  the  Prologue  the  “Tale  from  mouth  to  mouth” 
was  a game  which  I have  more  than  once  played  when 
I was  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  with  my  brother 
undergraduates.  Of  course,  if  he  “that  inherited  the 
tale  ” had  not  attended  very  carefully  to  his  prede- 
cessors, there  were  contradictions ; and  if  the  story  were 
historical,  occasional  anachronisms.  In  defence  of  what 

1 When  my  father  was  last  there  a boatman  said  to  him,  “ So  you’re  the 
gentleman  that  brought  the  money  to  the  place?” 


254  “THE  PRINCESS.”  [l847 

some  have  called  the  too  poetical  passages,  it  should 
be  recollected  that  the  poet  of  the  party  was  requested 
to  “dress  the  tale  up  poetically,”  and  he  was  full  of  the 
“ gallant  and  heroic  chronicle.”  Some  of  my  remarks 
on  passages  in  the  “ Princess  ” have  been  published  by 
Dawson  of  Canada,  who  copied  them  from  a letter 
which  I wrote  to  him  criticizing  his  study  of  the 
“ Princess  V’  The  child  is  the  link  thro’  the  parts  as 
shown  in  the  songs  which  are  the  best  interpreters  of 
the  poem2.  Before  the  first  edition  came  out,  I deliber- 
ated with  myself  whether  I should  put  songs  between 
the  separate  divisions  of  the  poem ; again  I thought 
that  the  poem  would  explain  itself,  but  the  public  did  not 
see  the  drift.  The  first  song  I wrote  was  named  “ The 
Losing  of  the  Child.”  The  child  is  sitting  on  the  bank 

O O 

of  the  river  and  playing  with  flowers ; a flood  comes 
down;  a dam  has  been  broken  thro’  — the  child  is  borne 
down  by  the  flood;  the  whole  village  distracted;  after 
a time  the  flood  has  subsided ; the  child  is  thrown  safe 
and  sound  again  upon  the  bank ; and  there  is  a chorus 
of  jubilant  women. 


1 The  letter  is  printed  on  pp.  256-259  of  this  volume. 

2 “At  the  end  of  the  first  canto,  fresh  from  the  description  of  the  female 
college,  with  its  professoresses,  and  hostleresses,  and  other  Utopian  monsters, 
we  turn  the  page,  and  — 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went. 

O there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kissed  again  with  tears. 

Between  the  next  two  cantos  intervenes  the  well-known  cradle  song,  perhaps 
the  best  of  all ; and  at  the  next  interval  is  the  equally  well-known  bugle- 
song,  the  idea  of  which  is  that  of  twin-labour  and  twin-fame  in  a pair  of 
lovers.  In  the  next  the  memory  of  wife  and  child  inspirits  the  soldier  on 
the  field ; in  the  next  the  sight  of  the  fallen  hero’s  child  opens  the  sluices  of 
his  widow’s  tears;  and  in  the  last, ...the  poet  has  succeeded,  in  the  new 
edition,  in  superadding  a new  form  of  emotion  to  a canto  in  which  he 
seemed  to  have  exhausted  every  resource  of  pathos  which  his  subject 
allowed.”  Charles  Kingsley,  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  September,  1850. 


ANOTHER  VERSION  OF  “SWEET  AND  LOW.” 


255 


( Unp  u blished  fragment. ) 

The  child  was  sitting  on  the  bank 
Upon  a stormy  day, 

He  loved  the  river’s  roaring  sound ; 

The  river  rose  and  burst  his  bound, 

Flooded  fifty  leagues  around, 

Took  the  child  from  off  the  ground, 

And  bore  the  child  away. 

O the  child  so  meek  and  wise, 

Who  made  us  wise  and  mild ! 

Ji,  Jf.  JA. 

*7Y*  *TV  *7v  "TV  'TV' 

Two  versions  of  “ Sweet  and  Low  ” were  made,  and 
were  sent  to  my  mother  to  choose  which  should  be 
published.  She  chose  the  published  one  in  preference 
to  that  which  follows,  because  it  seemed  to  her  more 
song-like. 


( Unpublished  version. ) 

Bright  is  the  moon  on  the  deep, 

Bright  are  the  cliffs  in  her  beam, 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep ! 

Look  he  smiles,  and  opens  his  hands, 

He  sees  his  father  in  distant  lands, 

And  kisses  him  there  in  a dream, 

Sleep,  sleep. 

Father  is  over  the  deep, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon, 

Sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep! 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  West, 

Under  the  silver  moon, 

Sleep,  sleep ! 


256 


[l847 


THE  PRINCESS.” 

“ The  notices  of  “ The  Princess  ” that  I know  inter- 
ested my  father  were  those  by  Aubrey  de  Vere1,  Charles 
Kingsley,  Robertson  (the  Brighton  preacher),  and  Daw- 
son of  Montreal.  To  the  last2  he  wrote  a letter  (Nov. 
2 1 st,  1882)  which  may  be  quoted  in  full: 

I thank  you  for  your  able  and  thoughtful  essay  on 
“The  Princess.”  You  have  seen  amongst  other  things 
that  if  women  ever  were  to  play  such  freaks,  the  bur- 
lesque and  the  tragic  might  go  hand  in  hand.  * # # 
Your  explanatory  notes  are  very  much  to  the  purpose, 
and  I do  not  object  to  your  finding  parallelisms.  They 
must  always  occur.  A man  (a  Chinese  scholar)  some 
time  ago  wrote  to  me  saying  that  in  an  unknown,  un- 
translated Chinese  poem  there  were  two  whole  lines3  of 
mine  almost  word  for  word  ? Why  not?  Are  not  human 
eyes  all  over  the  world  looking  at  the  same  objects,  and 
must  there  not  consequently  be  coincidences  of  thought 
and  impressions  and  expressions  ? It  is  scarcely  possible 
for  anyone  to  say  or  write  anything  in  this  late  time  of 
the  world  to  which,  in  the  rest  of  the  literature  of  the 
world,  a parallel  could  not  somewhere  be  found.  But 
when  you  say  that  this  passage  or  that  was  suggested  by 

1 Edinburgh  Review , No.  clxxxii.  October,  1849. 

2 In  Dawson’s  Study  of  the  Princess  I find  that  I have  written,  after  a 
talk  with  my  father  a propos  possibly  of  the  battle  at  the  end  of  the  poem : — 
“A.  T.  observed:  ‘ Macpherson’s  ‘Ossian’  is  poor  in  most  parts,  but  this  is 
a grand  image  — After  saying  that  the  beam  of  battle  was  bright  before  the 
spectral  warrior,  he  goes  on  somehow  like  this : ‘ But  behind  thee  was  the 
Shadow  of  Death,  like  the  darkened  half  of  the  moon  behind  its  other  half 
in  growing  light.”  A.  T.  talked  of  ‘the  beautiful  picture  that  the  girl 
graduates  would  have  made ; the  long  hall  glittering  like  a bed  of  flowers 
with  daffodil  and  lilac.’  Then  he  touched  on  the  old  religions  and  the  ‘ old 
god  of  war’;  ‘the  Norse  mythology,’  he  said,  ‘is  finer  than  the  Greek  with 
its  human  gods,  though  the  Greek  has  more  beauty.  The  Norsemen  thought 
that  there  was  something  better  in  the  way  of  religion  that  would  dawn  upon 
the  earth  after  the  Ragnarok  or  twilight  of  the  gods.’” 

3  The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are  high, 

And  the  thought  of  a man  is  higher. 

“The  Voice  and  the  Peak.” 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  POEMS. 


257 


1847] 

Wordsworth  or  Shelley  or  another,  I demur;  and  more, 
I wholly  disagree.  There  was  a period  in  my  life  when, 
as  an  artist,  Turner  for  instance,  takes  rough  sketches  of 
landskip,  etc.  in  order  to  work  them  eventually  into  some 
great  picture,  so  I was  in  the  habit  of  chronicling,  in 
four  or  five  words  or  more,  whatever  might  strike  me 
as  picturesque  in  Nature.  I never  put  these  down,  and 
many  and  many  a line  has  gone  away  on  the  north  wind, 
but  some  remain  : e.g. 

A full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moonlight. 

Suggestion . 

The  sea  one  night  at  Torquay,  when  Torquay  was 
the  most  lovely  sea-village  in  England,  tho’  now  a smoky 
town.  The  sky  was  covered  with  thin  vapour,  and  the 
moon  behind  it. 


A great  black  cloud 
Drags  inward  from  the  deep. 

Suggestion. 

A coming  storm  seen  from  the  top  of  Snowdon. 

In  the  “ Idylls  of  the  King,” 

With  all 

Its  stormy  crests  that  smote  against  the  skies. 
Suggestion. 

A storm  which  came  upon  us  in  the  middle  of  the 
North  Sea. 

As  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides. 

Suggestion. 

Water-lilies  in  my  own  pond,  seen  on  a gusty  day 
with  my  own  eyes.  They  did  start  and  slide  in  the 
sudden  puffs  of  wind  till  caught  and  stayed  by  the  tether 

T.  1.  17 


258  “THE  PRINCESS.”  [l847 

of  their  own  stalks,  quite  as  true  as  Wordsworth’s  simile 
and  more  in  detail. 

A wild  wind  shook, — 

Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt  win. 

Suggestion. 

I was  walking  in  the  New  Forest.  A wind  did  arise 

and 

Shake  the  songs,  the  whispers  and  the  shrieks 

Of  the  wild  wood  together. 

The  wind  I believe  was  a west  wind,  but  because  I 
wished  the  Prince  to  go  south,  I turned  the  wind  to  the 
south,  and  naturally  the  wind  said  “ follow.”  I believe 
the  resemblance  which  you  note  is  just  a chance  one. 
Shelley’s  lines  are  not  familiar  to  me  tho’  of  course,  if 
they  occur  in  the  Prometheus , I must  have  read  them. 
I could  multiply  instances,  but  I will  not  bore  you,  and 
far  indeed  am  I from  asserting  that  books  as  well  as 
Nature  are  not,  and  ought  not  to  be,  suggestive  to  the 
poet.  I am  sure  that  I myself,  and  many  others,  find  a 
peculiar  charm  in  those  passages  of  such  great  masters 
as  Virgil  or  Milton  where  they  adopt  the  creation  of  a 
bygone  poet,  and  re-clothe  it,  more  or  less,  according 
to  their  own  fancy.  But  there  is,  I fear,  a prosaic  set 
growing  up  among  us,  editors  of  booklets,  book-worms, 
index-hunters,  or  men  of  great  memories  and  no  imagi- 
nation, who  impute  themselves  to  the  poet,  and  so  believe 
that  he,  too,  has  no  imagination,  but  is  for  ever  poking 
his  nose  between  the  pages  of  some  old  volume  in  order 
to  see  what  he  can  appropriate.  They  will  not  allow 
one  to  say  ‘ Ring  the  bell  ’ without  finding  that  we  have 
taken  it  from  Sir  P.  Sidney,  or  even  to  use  such  a simple 
expression  as  the  ocean  “ roars,”  without  finding  out  the 
precise  verse  in  Homer  or  Horace  from  which  we  have 
plagiarised  it  (fact !). 


GAVARNIE. 


259 


1847] 

I have  known  an  old  fish-wife,  who  had  lost  two  sons 
at  sea,  clench  her  fist  at  the  advancing  tide  on  a stormy 
day,  and  cry  out,  “ Ay  ! roar,  do  ! how  I hates  to  see  thee 
show  thy  white  teeth.”  Now  if  I had  adopted  her  ex- 
clamation and  put  it  into  the  mouth  of  some  old  woman 
in  one  of  my  poems,  I daresay  the  critics  would  have 
thought  it  original  enough,  but  would  most  likely  have 
advised  me  to  go  to  Nature  for  my  old  women  and  not 
to  my  own  imagination  1 ; and  indeed  it  is  a strong  figure. 

Here  is  another  anecdote  about  suggestion.  When 
I was  about  twenty  or  twenty-one  I went  on  a tour  to 
the  Pyrenees.  Lying  among  these  mountains  before  a 
waterfall 2 that  comes  down  one  thousand  or  twelve 
hundred  feet  I sketched  it  (according  to  my  custom 
then)  in  these  words : 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn. 

When  I printed  this,  a critic  informed  me  that  “ lawn  ” 
was  the  material  used  in  theatres  to  imitate  a waterfall, 
and  graciously  added,  “ Mr  T.  should  not  go  to  the 
boards  of  a theatre  but  to  Nature  herself  for  his  sug- 
gestions.” And  I had  gone  to  Nature  herself. 

I think  it  is  a moot  point  whether,  if  I had  known 
how  that  effect  was  produced  on  the  stage,  I should  have 
ventured  to  publish  the  line. 

I find  that  I have  written,  quite  contrary  to  my 
custom,  a letter,  when  I had  merely  intended  to  thank 
you  for  your  interesting  commentary. 

Thanking  you  again  for  it,  I beg  you  to  believe  me 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 

1 He  used  to  compare  with  this  the  Norfolk  saying  which  we  heard  when 
we  were  staying  with  the  Rev.  C.  T.  Digby  at  Warham : “ The  sea  is 
moaning  for  the  loss  of  the  wind.” 

2 In  the  Cirque  de  Gavarnie. 


260 


THE  PRINCESS.” 


[l847 


Letters  after  the  publication  of  “The  Princes  si' 

To  Edward  Fitzgerald. 

1847. 

My  dear  Fitz, 

Ain’t  I a beast  for  not  answering  you  before  ? 
not  that  I am  going  to  write  now,  only  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  seen  Carlyle  more  than  once,  and  that  I have  been 
sojourning  at  42  Ebury  Street  for  some  twenty  days  or 
so,  and  that  I am  going  to  bolt  as  soon  as  ever  I can,  and 
that  I would  go  to  Italy  if  I could  get  anybody  to  go 
with  me  which  I can’t,  and  so  I suppose  I shan’t  go, 
which  makes  me  hate  myself  and  all  the  world ; for  the 
rest  I have  been  be-dined  usque  ad  nauseam.  A pint  of 
pale  ale  and  a chop  are  things  yearned  after,  not  achiev- 
able except  by  way  of  lunch.  However,  this  night  I 
have  sent  an  excuse  to  Mrs  Procter  and  here  I am  alone, 
and  wish  you  were  with  me.  How  are  you  getting  on  ? 
Don’t  grow  quite  into  glebe  before  I see  you  again. 

My  book  is  out  and  I hate  it,  and  so  no  doubt  will 
you. 

Never  mind,  you  will  like  me  none  the  worse,  and 
now  good-night.  I am  knocked  up  and  going  to  bed. 

Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


To  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

1847- 

My  dear  Aubrey, 

I have  ordered  Moxon  to  send  you  the  new 
edition1  of  “The  Princess.”  You  will  find  that  I have 
in  some  measure  adopted  your  suggestions,  not  entirely. 


1 Not  published  till  1848. 


LETTERS  TO  DE  VERE  AND  MRS  HOWITT. 


26l 


Many  thanks  for  your  critique  in  the  Edinburgh . There 
were  only  one  or  two  little  things  in  it  which  I did  not 
like ; for  instance  that  about  the  “ dying  and  the  dead  ” 
which  is  quite  wide  of  the  mark1,  and  you  will  see  that  I 
have  inserted  a line  to  guard  against  such  an  interpre- 
tation in  future ; however  I have  every  reason  to  be 
grateful  to  you,  both  for  the  ability  of  the  article  and 
for  the  favourable  view  you  take  of  me  in  general;  too 
favourable  surely.  I dare  not  believe  such  good  things 
of  myself.  I have  seen  no  papers  for  an  age,  and  do  not 
know  how  your  poor  are  going  on.  I fear  this  bitter 
weather  is  very  hard  upon  them. 

A.  T. 


To  Mrs  Howitt. 


42  Ebury  Street. 

My  dear  Mrs  Howitt, 

I got  your  beautiful  book  of  Ballads  the 
other  day  at  Moxon’s.  It  contains  (as  far  as  I have 
seen  it)  much  that  is  sweet  and  good  and  reminds  me 
of  yourself.  I have  however  been  myself  so  much 
engaged  with  proof-sheets  for  the  few  days  since  I 
received  it  that  I have  not  had  leisure  to  do  it  justice  by 
a fair  perusal.  Accept  in  return  a book2  of  mine  which 
I have  sent  to  Longmans’  for  you.  I don’t  believe  you 
will  like  it  — not  at  least  till  after  three  readings,  if  you 
will  honour  it  so  far.  Best  remembrances  to  husband 
and  daughter,  not  forgetting  the  younglings  and 

Believe  me  always  yours, 


1 See  p.  282. 

2 “ The  Princess.” 


A.  Tennyson. 


262 


THE  PRINCESS.”  [l847 

For  the  sisters  Bronte  my  father  had  the  highest 
admiration.  He  received  the  following  letter  from 
Currer  Bell  (Charlotte  Bronte) : 

June  1 6 th}  1847. 

Sir, 

My  relatives,  Ellis  and  Acton  Bell,  and  myself,  heed- 
less of  the  repeated  warnings  of  various  respectable  publishers, 
have  committed  the  rash  act  of  printing  a volume  of  poems. 

The  consequences  predicted  have  of  course  overtaken  us  ; 
our  book  is  found  to  be  a drug  ; no  man  needs  it  nor  heeds. 

In  the  space  of  a year  the  publisher  has  disposed  but  of  two 
copies ; and  by  what  painful  efforts  he  succeeded  in  getting  rid 
of  these  two,  himself  only  knows. 

Before  transferring  the  edition  to  the  trunkmakers,  we  have 
decided  on  distributing  as  presents  a few  copies  of  what  we 
cannot  sell.  We  beg  to  offer  you  one  in  acknowledgement  of 
the  pleasure  and  profit  we  have  often  and  long  derived  from 
your  works. 

I am,  Sir,  yours  very  respectfully, 


Currer  Bell. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


CHELTENHAM,  LONDON,  CORNWALL,  SCOTLAND 
AND  IRELAND,  1846-1850. 

The  headquarters  of  the  Tennysons  were  now  at 
Cheltenham,  Bellevue  House  in  St  James’  Square.  I 
am  indebted  to  Dr  Ker,  brother  of  Judge  Alan  Ker, 
who  married  Miss  Mary  Tennyson,  for  some  details  of 
my  father’s  life  at  this  time. 

From  1846  to  1850  he  was  often  with  his  mother  and 
family,  but  cannot  be  said  to  have  moved  in  the  society 
of  the  place : still  he  made  some  new  acquaintances. 
The  names  I can  recall  are  those  of  Dobson  \ afterwards 
Principal  of  Cheltenham  College  ; Boyd,  afterwards  Dean 
of  Exeter;  Foxton,  author  of  Popular  Christianity ; 
Sydney  Dobell,  the  poet;  Dr  Acworth ; Rashdall,  Vicar 
of  Malvern ; Reece ; and  the  well-known  and  “ much 
beloved  ” Frederick  Robertson,  then  Boyd’s  curate, 
afterwards  incumbent  of  Trinity  Chapel,  Brighton. 

There  was  a little  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  in 
St  James’  Square,  not  kept  in  very  orderly  fashion,  for 
books  and  papers  were  to  be  seen  quite  as  much  on  the 
floor  and  the  chairs  as  upon  the  table.  Here  my  father, 
pipe  in  mouth,  discoursed  to  his  friends  more  uncon- 
strainedly  than  anywhere  else  on  men  and  things  and 
what  death  means.  When  the  talk  was  on  religious 

1 Dobson  was  third  classic  in  the  same  year  that  Edmund  Lushington 
was  senior  classic  and  Thompson  fourth. 

263 


264  1846-1850.  [1846- 

questions,  which  was  not  often,  he  spoke  confidently  of  a 
future  existence.  Of  Christianity  he  said,  “ it  is  rugging 
at  my  heart  V’ 

My  father  would  say:  “The  first  time  I met 
Robertson  I felt  that  he  expected  something  notable 
from  me  because  I knew  that  he  admired  my  poems, 
that  he  wished  to  pluck  the  heart  from  my  mystery ; so 
for  the  life  of  me  from  pure  nervousness  I could  talk  of 
nothing  but  beer.” 

Dr  Ker  says : 

Sydney  Dobell  did  not  see  much  of  your  father  in  Chel- 
tenham ; but  in  Malvern,  some  years  after  your  family  left 
this  place,  Dobell,  as  he  afterwards  told  me,  saw  a good  deal  of 
him.  Dobell,  as  you  know,  was  not  a popular  poet,  and  the 
number  of  his  readers  does  not  increase  as  the  years  go  on,  but 
that  he  was  no  commonplace  poet  your  father  heartily  allowed. 
Frederick  Foxton  could  only  be  brought  to  speak  on  one  subject, 
Carlyle,  whose  companion  and  caretaker  he  had  been  during  a 
journey  on  the  Continent.  Rashdall  and  Dr  Acworth  were  men 
of  cultivation  and  high  social  qualities  whom  your  father  met 
occasionally  and  much  liked. 

One  acquaintance  would  keep  on  assuring  my  father 
that  it  was  the  greatest  honour  of  his  life  to  have  met 
him.  My  fathers  answer  to  such  praise  was,  “ Don’t 
talk  d — d nonsense.” 

His  chief  companion,  when  in  Cheltenham,  for  the 
best  part  of  two  years,  was  Dr  Ker’s  brother  Alan. 
Both  were  great  walkers,  and  few  near  or  distant  places 
in  this  beautiful  neighbourhood  were  left  unvisited  by 
them. 

A year  or  two  before,  my  father  had  lived  some  weeks 
in  a Hydropathic  Establishment  at  the  very  primitive 
village  of  Prestbury,  and  the  village  boys  were  in  the 
habit  of  following  him  and  the  other  inmates  whenever 
they  showed  themselves  on  the  roads  and  shouting, 

1 Dr  Ker,  MS  Notes. 


1847]  WORDSWORTH  AND  “DORA.”  265 

“ Shiver  and  shake.”  This  made  him  very  nervous  at 
the  time,  and  the  thought  even  of  passing  through 
Prestbury  revived  the  feeling. 

Dr  Ker  writes : 

Two  wishes  I used  to  hear  him  express;  one  was  to  see  the 
West  Indies,  the  other  to  see  the  earth  from  a balloon. 

Few  things  delighted  me  more  than  to  see  the  mother  and 
son  together.  You  cannot  remember  your  grandmother,  I think. 
She  was  a perfect  picture,  a beautiful  specimen  of  the  English 
gentlewoman,  loving  and  loveable,  “no  angel  but  a dearer  being,” 
and  so  sensitive  that  touch  her  feelings  ever  so  lightly  and  the 
tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  Then  it  was  we  used  to  hear  your 
father  say,  “ Dam  your  eyes,  mother,  dam  your  eyes  ! ” and  then 
she  smiled  and  applied  the  white  pocket-handkerchief  and  shook 
her  head  at  her  son.  He  often  jested  with  her  about  Dr  Cumming 
and  his  “bottles,”  the  bottles  being  the  seven  vials  of  St  John’s 
Revelation  ! You  have  heard,  I dare  say,  that  your  grandmother 
confined  her  reading  at  that  time  to  two  books,  the  Bible  and 
Dr  Cumming’s  work  on  Prophecy.  He  used  to  jest  with  his 
mother  about  her  monkey,  a clever  little  black  thing  that  was 
generally  seen  in  the  garden  perched  on  the  top  of  a pole. 
Your  father  naturally  christened  it  St  Simeon  Stylites.  I once 
ventured  to  ask  him  whether  his  mother  had  not  sat  for  the 
picture  of  the  Prince’s  mother  in  “ The  Princess,”  and  he  allowed 
that  no  one  else  had. 

Happy  he 

With  such  a mother  ! faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho’  he  trip  and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay. 

Your  father’s  estimate  of  Wordsworth’s  poetry  was  a very 
high  one  as  you  must  know,  and  I dare  say  you  know  that 
Wordsworth’s  opinion  of  your  father  was  also  very  high.  On 
one  of  the  occasions  of  their  meeting  Wordsworth  said  to  him  : 
“ Mr  Tennyson,  I have  been  endeavouring  all  my  life  to  write  a 
pastoral  like  your  ‘ Dora’  and  have  not  succeeded.”  That  was 
great  praise  from  one  who  honestly  weighed  his  words  and  was 
by  no  means  lavish  of  his  praise. 


266 


1846-1850. 


1846- 


From  Cheltenham  my  father  made  expeditions  to 
London  to  see  his  old  friends.  One  day  Savile 
Morton  writes  that  he  has  called  on  Alfred,  and  found 
Thackeray  there,  and  “ a stack  of  shag  tobacco  with 
Homer  and  Miss  Barrett  on  the  table.”  “ Both  Thackeray 
and  Alfred,”  he  adds,  “ praise  Miss  Barrett.”  My  father 
grew  to  know  Thackeray  well  and  would  call  him  a 
“ loveable  man.”  A story  which  he  told  illustrates  the 
character  of  both  the  friends.  They  had  been  dining 
together  and  my  father  said,  “ I love  Catullus  for  his 
perfection  in  form  and  for  his  tenderness,  he  is  tenderest 
of  Roman  poets,”  and  quoted  the  lines  about  Quintilia’s 
death  ending  with 

“ Quo  desiderio  veteres  renovamus  amores 
Atque  olim  amissas  flemus  amicitias  ” — 

lines  which  he  would  translate  by  four  lines  from  one  of 
Shakespeare’s  Sonnets, 

“ Then  can  I drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death’s  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  Love’s  long  since  cancell’d  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a vanish’d  sight,” 

and  the  stanza  from  the  “Juliae  et  Mallii  Epithalamium,” 

“Torquatus,  volo,  parvulus 
Matris  e grernio  suae 
Porrigens  teneras  manus 
Dulce  rideat  ad  patrem, 

Semihiante  labello.” 

Thackeray  answered,  “ I do  not  rate  him  highly, 
I could  do  better  myself.”  Next  morning  my  father 
received  this  apology: 

My  dear  Alfred, 

I woke  at  2 o’clock,  and  in  a sort  of  terror  at  a 
certain  speech  I had  made  about  Catullus.  When  I have  dined, 
sometimes  I believe  myself  to  be  equal  to  the  greatest  painters 
and  poets.  That  delusion  goes  off ; and  then  I know  what  a 


WALKS  WITH  CARLYLE. 


267 


1847] 

small  fiddle  mine  is  and  what  small  tunes  I play  upon  it.  It 
was  very  generous  of  you  to  give  me  an  opportunity  of  recalling  a 
silly  speech : but  at  the  time  I thought  I was  making  a perfectly 
simple  and  satisfactory  observation.  Thus  far  I must  unbus'm 
myself  : though  why  should  I be  so  uneasy  at  having  made  a 
conceited  speech  ? It  is  conceited  not  to  wish  to  seem  conceited. 
With  which  I conclude, 

Yours,  W.  M.  T. 

“ It  was  impossible,”  said  my  father,  “ to  have  written 
in  a more  generous  spirit.  No  one  but  a noble-hearted 
man  could  have  written  such  a letter.” 

During  the  “ forties  ” he  was  in  the  habit  of  walking 
with  Carlyle  at  night,  and  Carlyle  would  rail  against  the 
“governments  of  Jackasserie  which  cared  more  for 
commerce  than  for  the  greatness  of  our  empire  ” ; or 
would  rave  against  the  stuccoed  houses  in  London  as 
“ acrid  putrescence,”  or  against  the  suburbs  as  a “ black 
jumble  of  black  cottages  where  there  used  to  be  pleasant 
fields  ” ; and  they  would  both  agree  that  it  was  growing 
into  “a  strange  chaos  of  odds  and  ends,  this  London.” 
They  were  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  one  another  although 
many  were  afraid  of  them,  and  they  had  long  and  free 
discussions  on  every  conceivable  subject,  and  once  only 
almost  quarrelled,  when  Carlyle  asserted  that  my  father 
talked  of  poetry  as  “high  art,”  which  he  flatly  contra- 
dicted, “ I never  in  my  whole  life  spoke  of  ‘high  art.’” 
They  had  — both  of  them  — lost  MSS  of  their  works; 
Carlyle  his  French  Revolution , my  father  Poems , chiefly 
Lyrical  When  my  father  asked  Carlyle  how  he  felt 
after  the  disappearance  of  his  MS,  he  answered,  “Well, 
I just  felt  like  a man  swimming  without  water.” 

My  uncle  Frederick  writes : 

I am  sure  I could  not  perform  such  a feat  as  I know  Alfred 
to  have  done,  any  more  than  raise  the  dead.  The  earliest  MS 
of  the  Poe?7is , chiefly  Lyi'iccil  he  lost  out  of  his  great-coat  pocket 
one  night  while  returning  from  a neighbouring  market  town. 


268 


1846-1850. 


[l846~ 


This  was  enough  to  reduce  an  ordinary  man  to  despair,  but  the 
invisible  ink  was  made  to  reappear,  all  the  thoughts  and  fancies 
in  their  orderly  series  and  with  their  entire  drapery  of  words 
arose  and  lived  again.  I wonder  what  under  such  circumstances 
would  become  of  the  “mob  of  gentlemen  who  write  with  ease.’' 
Of  course  it  would  not  much  matter  as  they  could  easily  indite 
something  new. 


My  father’s  poems  were  generally  based  on  some 
single  phrase  like  “Someone  had  blundered”:  and  were 
rolled  about,  so  to  speak,  in  his  head,  before  he  wrote 
them  down : and  hence  they  did  not  easily  slip  from  his 
memory. 

In  these  London  days  among  his  friends  were  the 
Kembles,  Coventry  Patmore,  Frederick  Pollock,  Alfred 
Wigan,  and  Macready;  and  he  enjoyed  “turning  in”  at 
the  theatres.  Macready  he  thought  not  good  in  “ Hamlet  ” 
but  fine  in  “ Macbeth  ” : yet  said  that  his  “ Out,  out,  brief 
candle  ! ” was  wrong,  “ not  vexed  and  harassed  as  it  ought 
to  be,  but  spoken  with  lowered  voice,  and  a pathos  which 
I am  sure,  Shakespeare  never  intended.” 

One  evening,  at  Bath  House,  Milnes  wished  to  intro- 
duce my  father  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  “ No,”  my 
father  said,  “ why  should  the  great  Duke  be  bothered  by 
a poor  poet  like  me?”  He  only  once  saw  the  Duke, 
when  he  was  riding  out  of  the  Horse  Guards  at  White- 
hall : and  took  off  his  hat.  The  Duke  instantly  made 
his  usual  military  salute,  commemorated  in  the  “ Ode  on 
the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ” in  the  well-known 
lines : 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

Rogers  continued  to  be  intimate  with  my  father,  and 
would  ask  him  privately  his  opinion  on  literary  matters1. 

1 My  father  asked  him  why  he  did  not  write  a sonnet.  “ I never  could 
dance  in  fetters,”  he  answered.  My  father  himself  preferred  the  Shake- 
spearian form  of  sonnet  to  the  Italian,  as  being  less  constrained. 


LONDON  FRIENDS. 


269 


1847] 

At  one  of  the  famous  breakfasts,  wishing  to  do  my  father 
honour  before  the  company,  and  expecting  praise,  Rogers 
enquired  whether  he  approved  of  a particular  poem  by 
himself.  My  father  told  him  frankly  that  a certain 
emendation  would  be  an  improvement.  “ It  shall  be 
attended  to,”  answered  Rogers,  but  very  stiffly.  Then, 
because  my  father  went  to  the  Water-Cure,  Rogers  had 
an  erroneous  idea  that  he  “suffered  from  many  in- 
firmities.” When  I showed  my  father  this  statement  in 
a published  letter,  he  wrote  down:  “ No  truer  comment 
could  be  made  on  this  than  my  favourite  adage,  ‘ Every 
man  imputes  himself.’  My  good  old  friend  had  many  in- 
firmities. What  mine  were  I know  not  unless  short-sight 
and  occasional  hypochondria  be  infirmities.  I used, 
from  having  early  read  in  my  father’s  library  a great 
number  of  medical  books,  to  fancy  at  times  that  I had 
all  the  diseases  in  the  world,  like  a medical  student.  I 
dare  say  old  Rogers  meant  it  all  for  the  best.  Peace  be 
with  him!  often  bitter,  but  very  kindly  at  heart.  We 
have  often  talked  of  death  together  till  I have  seen  the 
tears  roll  down  his  cheeks.” 

About  this  time  there  was  a dinner  given  at 
Hampstead  by  a Society  of  Authors,  Sergeant  Talfourd 
in  the  chair.  My  father  accepted  an  invitation  to  the 
dinner  on  condition  that  he  should  not  be  asked  to  make 
a speech.  Many  speeches  were  made,  each  author 
praising  every  other  author.  My  father  seems  to  have 
said  to  his  neighbour,  “ I wonder  which  of  us  will  last 
500  years  ? ” Upon  which  Talfourd  jumped  up  and  burst 
forth  into  “A  speech  about  Tennyson,”  affirming  that 
he  was  “ sure  to  live.”  Then  Douglas  Jerrold  seized  my 
father’s  hand  and  said,  “ I haven’t  the  smallest  doubt  that 
you  will  outlast  us  all,  and  that  you  are  the  one  who 
will  live.”  The  subject  of  these  enthusiastic  words  dis- 
claimed his  sureness  of  lasting,  and  told  his  friends 
that  while  thanking  them  all  he  felt  his  inability  to  make 


270 


1846-1850. 


[1847 

a speech  and  so  on.  Talfourd  shouted  out,  “ Why  you  are 
making  a speech.”  “ Yes,”  answered  my  father,  “but  not 
upon  my  legs.” 


Letters , 1847. 

To  Mrs  Howitt. 

[Dr  Gully’s.] 

May  22nd ’ [1847?]. 

My  dear  Mrs  Howitt, 

I got  your  letter  three  or  four  days  ago  and 
if  I did  not  answer  immediately  you  must  lay  it  to  the 
account  of  the  water-cure  which  I am  undergoing  and 
which  renders  letter-writing  or  anything,  except  washing 
and  walking,  more  difficult  than  those  who  have  not  past 
thro’  the  same  ordeal  would  easily  believe. 

At  this  moment  my  own  family  do  not  know  where  I 
am : I have  not  written  home,  nor  shall  write  I dare  say 
for  some  time ; to  be  sure  I am  not  at  any  time  much  in 
the  habit  of  writing  home,  and  so  my  people  know  my 
ways  and  forgive  them  ; but  to  you  I feared  to  seem 
unkind  and  forgetful  of  the  pleasant  day  I spent  under 
your  roof  if  I kept  silence ; so  I write  to  tell  you  that  my 
visit  to  Clapton  though  necessarily  postponed  will  really 
if  I live  and  thrive  sometime  take  place  ; “ sunshine  ” 
and  “ flowers  ” will  go  on  for  a long  time  yet,  and  before 
they  are  all  gone  I hope  to  see  you  and  to  find  you 
wholly  recovered  from  the  effects  of  that  sad  and  anxious 
winter  you  speak  of ; to  me  it  is  not  permitted  to  be 
either  sad  or  anxious  if  I am  to  get  better.  I must, 
like  Prince  Hal,  “ doff  the  world  aside  and  let  it  pass,” 
so  says  my  doctor  tho’  he  does  not  quote  Shakespeare 
for  it. 


1847] 


FREILIGRATH. 


27I 


Good-bye  and  give  my  best  remembrances  to  all  yours 
whom  I know,  and 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Mrs  Howitt, 

Yours  very  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 


To  F.  Freiligrath . 

10  St  James’  Square,  Cheltenham. 

Nov.  $th,  [1847?]. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I had  long  ago  heard  of  you  : I knew  that  you 
were  a celebrated  German  Poet  and  lover  of  Liberty: 
therefore  was  my  satisfaction  great  to  receive  (as  I did 
this  morning)  a copy  of  your  works  with  your  own 
friendly  autograph.  I need  not  say  how  much  I feel 
the  honour  you  have  done  me  in  translating  some  of 
my  poems  into  your  own  noble  and  powerful  language. 
Would  that  my  acquaintance  were  more  perfect  with 
German  \ then  would  my  tribute  of  approbation  be  of 
more  value  and  less  incur  the  charge  of  presumption.  I 
have  not  yet  had  time  and  leisure  sufficient  to  read  your 
translations  from  myself  carefully ; but  from  what  I have 
seen  and  if  I may  be  permitted  to  judge,  I should  say 
that  they  are  not  dry  bones,  but  seem  full  of  a living 
warmth,  in  fact  a Poet's  translation  of  Poetry.  I could 
wish  however  that  you  had  taken  the  2nd  edition  of 
“ Mariana  in  the  South  the  old  poem  was  so  imperfect 
as  to  be  wholly  unworthy  your  notice. 

Accept  my  friendship  and  my  regrets  that  I am  not 
at  present  able  to  come  up  to  town  and  shake  you  by  the 
hand.  How  long  do  you  stop  in  England  ? Is  there 
any  hope  that  you  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  come  to 


1 He  could  read  German  with  ease  at  this  time. 


1846-1850. 


272 


[1848 


Cheltenham  ? I should  be  most  happy  to  see  you. 
Write  to  me  and  tell  me,  and 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  ever  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 


1848-49. 

In  February  the  Tennysons  received  a letter  from 
Emily  in  Paris.  The  Revolution  against  Louis  Philippe 
had  begun.  She  had  been  looking  out  of  her  window, 
and  was  shot  at  by  one  of  the  Revolutionists,  the  bullet 
missing  her  and  going  through  the  ceiling.  The  account 
continues,  written  but  not  signed  by  her: 

31,  Rue  Tronchet. 

Feb.  25th,  1848. 

********* 

It  would  be  impossible  to  attempt  any  description  of  the 
horrors  of  yesterday.  However,  the  public  events  are  better 
recorded,  and  will  have  reached  you  by  means  of  the  paper. 
But  I will  at  once  satisfy  your  anxiety  as  to  the  safety  of  myself 
and  all  our  friends.  Instead  of  retiring  to  the  Convent  as  I had 
intended  on  Wednesday,  I could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  leave 
my  friends  at  a moment  of  such  imminent  danger,  and  the  only 
moment  past  in  which  I could  have  crossed  the  Bridges.  I have 
remained  the  last  two  nights  with  Madame  Marthion,  sleeping 
in  her  room,  unable  to  procure  any  clothes  but  those  I brought 
on  my  back  from  the  Convent  on  Tuesday.  Yesterday  past 
like  a fearful  dream.  In  the  morning  it  was  hoped  the  resig- 
nation of  Guizot  would  satisfy  the  people,  but  their  triumph 
only  made  them  the  more  exorbitant,  and  while  the  Gen- 
eral who  had  gone  to  his  post  at  the  Tuileries  was  break- 
fasting at  11  o’clock,  the  Deputation  came  to  the  King,  and 
everything  was  immediately  in  disorder.  The  King,  after 
recommending  to  the  National  Guard  the  safety  of  the  citizens, 
started  for  St  Cloud  in  a carriage,  with  all  his  family,  except  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans  and  her  children.  The  General  was  ap- 
prised of  Sophie’s  arrival  at  the  Tuileries,  and  went  downstairs 
to  see  her,  and  on  returning  to  his  post  by  the  Duchess  of 


1848]  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION  OF  1 848.  273 

Orleans  as  quickly  as  he  could,  was  met  by  her.  “ Mon  cher 
General,  suivez-moi  ” was  all  she  was  able  to  say  to  him  in 
passing.  The  poor  man  was  unable  to  obey,  and  his  feelings 
can  be  better  understood  than  described,  as  he  saw  her  crossing 
the  Tuileries  Gardens  on  foot,  escorted  by  a few  friends  amidst 
this  infuriated  mob  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies.  There  she  was 
at  first  well  received,  but  some  of  the  mob  penetrated  and  sur- 
rounded her,  and  one  man  applied  a gun  to  her  cheek.  This 
however  was  happily  turned  off  by  a Deputy,  and  Jules  Lasteyre, 
another  of  the  Opposition  Deputies,  aided  by  many  of  his 
brother  Deputies,  defended  her  and  contrived  to  get  her  into  a 
fiacre  which  he  drove  to  the  Invalides.  She  was  separated  from 
her  children  for  some  time,  but  at  length  they  joined  her  in 
disguise,  and  she  is  at  this  moment  not  at  the  Invalides,  but  in  a 
secret  place  of  safety,  of  which  the  General  himself  is  ignorant. 
After  the  departure  of  the  King,  the  Tuileries  was  thoroughly 
invaded  by  the  mob,  and  every  article  of  furniture  completely 
destroyed.  The  poor  General  stayed  to  defend  the  property 
of  the  Duchess  as  long  as  he  thought  he  could  be  of  use,  and 
then  he  with  Sophie  left  the  Tuileries,  he,  almost  lifted  down- 
stairs by  a man  whom  he  had  had  an  opportunity  of  serving, 
and  his  infirmities  were  respected  by  the  mob,  till  he  got  to  the 
Rue  du  29  Juillet,  towards  2 o’clock ; from  thence,  as  soon  as  he 
could  be  removed,  to  the  Rue  des  Capucines  where  he  is  now. 
Of  course  his  place  and  position  are  gone,  but  you  may  conceive 
the  anxiety  of  our  minds  to  know  what  had  become  of  him  and 
Sophie  during  the  fearful  hours  they  were  in  the  Tuileries,  where 
it  was  impossible  to  attempt  any  communication.  * * * You 
never  saw  such  a set  of  ruffians  as  infest  the  streets,  armed  with 
every  weapon  with  which  they  could  furnish  themselves,  shouting 
and  singing  the  “ Marseillaise,”  etc.  About  half  an  hour  ago  a 
gang  went  by  shouting  “Au  chemin  de  fer  ” ; and  we  fear  that 
the  passage  out  of  Paris  will  be  completely  cut  off.  The  streets 
are  all  barricaded  so  that  no  carriage  can  pass,  and  though 
Madame  Marthion  and  Sophie  consider  the  wisest  plan  would  be 
to  leave  the  town  we  fear  it  will  scarcely  now  be  possible.  * * * 
The  Palais  Royal  is  burnt  down.  * * * We  were  obliged  to 
illuminate  for  safety’s  sake  last  night,  and  such  a host  of 
villains  have  taken  advantage  of  this  tumult,  that  you  may 
imagine  our  rest  was  scarcely  so  to  be  called.  The  fear  of 

pillage,  and  the  anxiety  lest  this  infuriated  mob  might  even  turn 
T.  l iS 


1846-1850. 


274 


[l848 


against  our  only  security,  the  National  Guard,  at  a moment  of  no 
existing  government  (for  the  provisional  government  could  not 
yesterday  come  to  any  measures),  kept  our  minds  awake,  while 
our  eyes  were  closed,  though  fatigue  of  mind  and  body  overcame 
our  anxiety  in  a great  measure.  The  situation  of  the  General’s 
house,  next  to  Guizot’s,  also  keeps  us  in  constant  alarm.  The 
noise  of  firing  also  all  night,  in  the  uncertainty  of  its  being 
merely  rejoicing,  or  with  murderous  objects,  contributed  its  share 
to  add  to  our  anxiety.  * * * 

Provisions  are  growing  very  scarce,  and  the  cry  for  bread  is 
now  strong.  Yesterday  half  the  mob  were  drunk. 


My  father  s journal  of  his  Tour  in  Cornwall \ 1848  ( when 
he  thought  of  again  taking  tip  the  subject  of  Arthur). 

Tuesday , May  30 th.  Arrived  at  Bude  in  dark,  askt 

girl  way  to  sea,  she  opens  the  back  door... I go  out 
and  in  a moment  go  sheer  down,  upward  of  six  feet, 
over  wall  on  fanged  cobbles1.  Up  again  and  walked  to 
sea  over  dark  hill. 

June  2nd.  Took  a gig  to  Rev.  S.  Hawker  at  Mor- 
wenstow,  passing  Comb  valley,  fine  view  over  sea,  coldest 
manner  of  Vicar  till  I told  my  name,  then  all  heartiness. 
Walk  on  cliff  with  him,  told  of  shipwreck. 

Sunday.  Rainy  and  bad,  went  and  sat  in  Tintagel 
ruins,  cliff  all  black  and  red  and  yellow,  weird  looking 
thing. 

1 “ At  one  place,”  writes  Miss  Fox,  “where  he  arrived  in  the  evening,  he 
cried,  1 Where  is  the  sea?  Show  me  the  sea.’  So  after  the  sea  he  went 
stumbling  in  the  dark,  and  fell  down  and  hurt  his  leg  so  much  that  he  had 
to  be  nursed  six  weeks  by  a surgeon  there,  who  introduced  some  friends  to 
him,  and  thus  he  got  into  a class  of  society  totally  new  to  him ; and  when 
he  left  they  gave  him  a series  of  introductions,  so  that  instead  of  going  to 
hotels  he  was  passed  on  from  town  to  town,  and  abode  with  little  grocers 
and  shopkeepers  along  his  line  of  travel.  He  says  that  he  cannot  have 
better  got  a true  impression  of  the  class,  and  thinks  the  Cornish  very 
superior  to  the  generality.  They  all  knew  about  Tennyson,  and  had  read 
his  poems,  and  one  miner  hid  behind  a wall  that  he  might  see  him.  Thus 
he  became  familiarized  with  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  all  classes  of 
society.” 


TOUR  IN  CORNWALL. 


275 


1848] 

5 th.  Clomb  over  Isle,  disappointed,  went  thro’  the 
sea-tunnel-cavern  over  great  blocks.  Walls  lined  with 
shells,  pink  or  puce  jellies.  Girls  playing  about  the  rocks 
as  in  a theatre. 

6 th.  Slate  quarries,  one  great  pillar  left  standing; 
ship  under  the  cliff  loading ; dived  into  a cavern  all 
polished  with  the  waves  like  dark  marble  with  veins  of 
pink  and  white.  Follow’d  up  little  stream  falling  thro’ 
the  worn  slate,  smoked  a pipe  at  little  inn,  dined,  walked 
once  more  to  the  old  castle  darkening  in  the  gloom. 

jth.  Camelford,  Slaughter  Bridge,  clear  brook  among 
alders.  Sought  for  King  Arthur’s  stone,  found  it  at  last 
by  a rock  under  two  or  three  sycamores,  walked  seaward, 
came  down  by  churchyard.  Song  from  ship. 

8th.  Walked  seaward.  Large  crimson  clover;  sea 
purple  and  green  like  a peacock’s  neck.  “ By  bays,  the 
peacock’s  neck  in  hue.” 

14/^.  Read  part  of  CE dipus  Coloneus. 

\Q)th . Finished  reading  Fathom \ Set  off  for  Pol- 
perro,  ripple-mark,  queer  old  narrow-streeted  place,  back 
at  9.  Turf  fires  on  the  hills;  jewel-fires  in  the  waves 
from  the  oar,  which  Cornish  people  call  “ bryming.” 

July  1 st.  Museum.  After  dinner  went  to  Perranza- 
buloe.  Coast  looked  gray  and  grand  in  the  fading  light. 
Went  into  cave,  Rembrandt-like  light  thro’  the  opening. 

6tk.  Went  to  Land’s  End  by  Logan  rock,  leaden- 
backed  mews  wailing  on  cliff,  one  with  two  young  ones. 
Mist.  Great  yellow  flare  just  before  sunset.  Funeral. 
Land’s  End  and  Life’s  End. 

8th.  The  Lizard,  rocks  in  sea,  two  southern  eyes 
of  England2.  Tamarisk  hedge  in  flower.  Round  Pen- 
treath  beach,  large  crane’s  bill  near  Kynance,  down 
to  cove.  Glorious  grass-green  monsters  of  waves.  Into 

o o 

caves  of  Asparagus  Island.  Sat  watching  wave-rainbows. 


2 Lighthouses. 


1 Doubtless  Smollett’s  Ferdinand  Count  Fathom. 


276 


1846-1850. 


[l848 


ii  th.  Down  to  Lizard  Cove.  Smoked  with  work- 
men. Boat  to  several  places.  Saw  the  further  ships 
under  Penzance  like  beads  threading  the  sunny  shore. 

1 2th.  Polpur.  Bathed,  ran  in  and  out  of  cave. 
Down  to  Caerthillian,  lovely  clear  water  in  cove.  Lay 
over  Pentreath  beach,  thunder  of  waves  to  west.  Pena- 
luna’s  Cornwall. 

1 ith.  Bathed  in  Polpur  Cove.  Bewick-like  look  of 
trunk,  cloak  and  carpet  bag,  lying  on  rock.  Sailed,  could 
not  land  at  Kynance.  Saw  the  long  green  swell  heaving 
on  the  black  cliff,  rowed  into  Pigeonthugo,  dismal  wailing 
of  mews.  To  St  Ives. 


Mrs  Rundle  Charles1,  who  was  then  Miss  Rundle, 
allowed  me  to  publish  the  following  account,  from  her 
private  diary,  of  my  father’s  visit  (during  this  tour)  to 
her  uncle’s  house  near  Plymouth. 

We  were  staying  at  Upland,  a country  house  belonging  to 
an  uncle  of  mine  four  miles  from  Plymouth.  Whilst  there  we 
were  walking  on  the  Hoe  at  Plymouth  one  day,  when  to  my 
delight  we  were  told  that  my  father  was  to  drive  Mr  Tennyson 
from  Tavistock  to  pay  us  a visit  at  Upland.  The  clergyman’s 
wife  and  other  friends  came  to  tea  that  afternoon,  but  Mr  Ten- 
nyson did  not  appear.  We  went  out  for  a ramble  in  the  wood, 
were  caught  in  a shower  and  ran  home.  Mr  Tennyson  was 
there,  in  the  hall,  just  arrived : my  father  introduced  me  to  him, 
and  he  came  into  the  drawing-room,  and  said  to  my  mother,  “You 
have  a party,”  which  he  did  not  seem  to  like.  My  father  then 
called  me  in  to  make  tea  for  Mr  Tennyson  in  the  dining-room, 
and  we  had  a quiet  talk  ; a powerful,  thoughtful  face,  kind  smile, 
hearty  laugh,  extremely  near-sighted2.  He  spoke  of  travelling; 
Dresden,  unsatisfactoriness  of  picture-gallery  seeing ; the  first 
time  he  was  in  Paris  he  “went  every  day  for  a fortnight  to  the 

1 Author  of  The  Schonberg-Cotta  Fa?nily ; she  died  in  1896. 

2 He  talked  then  with  his  friends  of  Sir  Charles  Napier  and  of  his  battle 
of  Meeanee  (1843),  about  which  he  half  thought  of  making  a poem,  and  said 
that  Westley  the  optician  had  told  him  that  Sir  Charles  Napier  and  he  were 
the  two  most  short-sighted  men  in  England. 


1848]  “LA  MAITRESSE  DE  TITIEN.”  2JJ 

Louvre,  saw  only  one  picture,  ‘ La  Maitresse  de  Titien,’  the 
second  time  looked  only  at  ‘Narcissus  lying  by  a stream,  Echo 
in  the  distance  and  ferocious  little  Love.’  ” Mr  Ruskin  set  his 
own  thought  against  the  united  admiration  of  centuries,  but  he 
spoke  of  a “ splendid  chapter  on  Clouds  ” in  Modern  Painters. 

Then  he  turned  to  Geology,  Weald  of  Kent,  Delta  of  a great 
river  flowing  from  as  far  as  Newfoundland.  “ Conceive,”  he  said, 
“ what  an  era  of  the  world  that  must  have  been,  great  lizards, 
marshes,  gigantic  ferns  ! ” Fancied,  standing  by  a railway  at 
night,  the  engine  must  be  like  some  great  Ichthyosaurus.  I 
replied  how  beautiful  Hugh  Miller’s  descriptions  of  that  time 
are : he  thought  so  too : then  spoke  of  Peach,  the  Cornish 
geologist  on  the  Preventive  Service,  maintaining  a wife  and 
seven  children  on  ^ioo  a year,  whilst  we  in  one  annual  dinner, 
champagne,  turtle,  etc.  spend  ^25. 

He  spoke  of  the  Italians  as  a great  people  (it  was  in  1848, 
the  year  of  revolutions x)  “ twice  matured.”  He  had  read  a poem 
of  mine  on  Italy  : said  he  felt  “ great  interest  in  the  Italian  move- 
ment as  in  all  great  movements  for  freedom  ” ; that  perhaps  all 
looked  equally  disorderly  as  they  arose ; that  the  German  revo- 
lutions (of  1848)  were  miserable  plagiarisms.  We  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  I played  Mendelssohn.  Mr  Tennyson  came  and 
talked  to  me  about  Schiller,  — “ Schwarmerisch,  yet  Schwarmerei 
better  than  mere  kalter  Verstand,  not  dramatic ; knew  by 
heart  Goethe’s  Gedichte  ‘Summer  breathings.’  Felt  the  grand 
intellectual  power  of  Faust , but  threw  it  aside  in  disgust  at  the 
first  reading ! ” Then  he  spoke  of  Milton’s  Latinisms,  and 
delicate  play  with  words,  and  Shakespeare’s  play  upon  words. 
At  supper  he  spoke  of  Goethe’s  Tasso:  he  felt  with  Tasso,  did 
not  care  for  anything  else  in  the  play.  “ Leonora,  discreet, 
prudential  young  lady,  could  not  of  course  care  for  the  poor 

1 He  used  to  tell  with  infinite  humour  the  following  story,  illustrating  the 
love  of  a row  in  the  hot-blooded  South.  “Edward  Lear,  the  painter,  had 
been  living  at  a hotel  in  a small  town  in  Southern  Italy,  but  had  gone  on  a 
tour  leaving  his  room  locked  up.  On  his  return  he  found  the  place  in  the 
uproar  of  a mushroom  revolution,  the  inhabitants  drunk  with  chianti  and 
shouting  liberta  and  la  patria  through  the  streets.  ‘ Where  is  my  chiavej 
said  he  to  the  waiter,  ‘of  my  camera  to  get  at  my  roba ?'  ‘ O,1  replied  the 

waiter,  not  liking  to  be  let  down  from  his  dream  of  a golden  age,  * O che 
chiavel  O che  camera  ! O che  roba  ! Non  c’  e piu  chiave  ! Non  c’  e piu 
camera  ! Non  c’  e piu  roba  ! Non  c’  e piu  niente  ! Tutto  e amore  e libertk ! 
O che  bella  revoluzione  ! ’ ” 


1846-1850. 


278 


[l848 


poet  — it  would  not  have  been  the  thing,  it  would  not  have  done: 
remembered  only  these  lines  : 

‘ Es  bildet  ein  Talent  sich  in  der  Stille, 

Sich  ein  Charakter  in  dem  Strom  der  Welt.’” 

Said  he  had  talked  of  me  last  night  and  heard  from  Dr  Beale, 
a clergyman  of  Tavistock,  brother-in-law  of  W.  H.  Smith,  that  I 
knew  Greek,  and  he  said  he  only  disliked  pedantry  in  women.  He 
said,  “ Wordsworth  was  great,  but  too  one-sided  to  be  dramatic.” 
He  spoke  of  the  “snobbery  of  English  society.”  It  was  getting 
late,  so  my  aunt  asked  him  to  stay  the  night,  but  he  said  he  had 
breakfasted  alone  for  a dozen  years  ; then  he  said  to  me,  “ Ich 
kann  nicht  hier  schlafen.”  I said,  “ Warum  ? ” He  said,  “ Ich  kann 
nicht  rauchen.”  I translated  aloud,  he  laughed,  declared  he  “ had 
never  been  played  such  a trick  before,  chose  the  disguise  of  an 
obscure  northern  dialect,  and  was  betrayed  to  everyone”  ; then 
he  said,  “ German  has  great  fine  words  : every  language  is  really 
untranslateable.”  Then  the  carriage  came  to  take  him  into 
Plymouth  : he  asked  to  take  my  poems  (manuscript)  with  him,  and 
said,  “ Good-night  not  Good-bye.”  Next  morning  (Tuesday,  July 
25th)  Mr  Tennyson  came  again  : he  talked  about  lower  organisms 
feeling  less  pain  than  higher,  but  would  not  fish  : could  not  com- 
prehend the  feeling  of  animals  with  ganglia,  little  scattered  knots 
of  nerves  and  no  brain;  spoke  of  wonderful  variety  of  forms  of 
life,  instinct  of  plants,  etc.,  told  the  story  of  “a  Brahmin  destroying 
a microscope  because  it  showed  him  animals  killing  each  other 
in  a drop  of  water  ”;  “ significant,  as  if  we  could  destroy  facts  by 
refusing  to  see  them.”  We  walked  into  the  garden,  sat  on  chairs 
at  entrance  of  avenue ; then  he  laughed  about  some  tremendous 
“duty-woman,”  clergyman’s  wife,  now  Low,  now  High  Church, 
“ always  equally  vehement,  little  brains,  much  conscientiousness  ; 
husband  preached  one  thing  in  the  church,  she  another  in  the 
parish.”  He  said  it  was  right  to  “enjoy  leisure,”  spoke  of  Miss 
Martineau’s  Eastern  Life , did  not  like  her,  said  he  supposed  we 
were  not  Unitarians  or  Pagans,  although  it  was  the  fashion  with 
literary  ladies.  Then  he  spoke  of  my  poems,  said  he  liked  some 
very  much,  especially  some  lines  on  the  gentianella : then  he 
kindly  made  one  or  two  verbal  criticisms  in  one  called  “The 
Poet’s  Daily  Bread.”  “ Have  you  printed  ? ” he  said.  “ Do  not 
publish  too  early,  you  cannot  retract.”  I ventured  to  thank  him 
for  his  poems,  in  which  we  delighted.  “ I thank  you  for  yours,” 


1848]  THE  BOOK  OF  “REVELATION.”  279 

he  said  graciously.  We  went  into  the  kitchen  garden,  he  talked 
of  flowers  and  cabbages,  picked  gooseberries,  he  “ used  as  a boy 
to  lie  for  hours  under  a gooseberry  bush  reading  a novel,  finishing 
his  gooseberries  and  novel  together  ” ; he  liked  the  kitchen  garden, 
“so  wholesome.”  “I  would  rather  stay  with  you  bright  girls 
than  dine  with  Mr  W.,”  he  said.  He  sent  away  his  fly,  then  we 
went  into  my  cousin  Helen’s  garden,  and  he  told  us  stories  of 
“ an  African  woman,  who  asked  to  be  breakfasted  upon  (by  white 
men),”  etc.  etc.  Afterwards  we  drove  him  into  Plymouth.  “ You 
would  not  think  me  a shy  man,  but  I am  always  shy  with  false 
or  conventional  people ; people  are  sometimes  affected  from 
shyness,  and  grow  simple.”  Then  we  talked  of  Carlyle:  “You 
would  like  him  for  one  day,”  he  said,  “but  get  tired  of  him, 
so  vehement  and  destructive  ” ; he  gave  by  way  of  a specimen 
of  his  talk  in  a deep  tragic  voice,  “For  God’s  sake  away 
with  gigs,  thousand  million  gigs  in  the  world,  away  with  them 
all  in  God’s  name,  spoke  and  axle,  the  world  will  never  be 
right  until  they  are  all  swept  into  the  lowest  pit  of  Tophet.” 
He  often  smokes  with  Carlyle ; “ Goethe  once  Carlyle’s  hero, 
now  Cromwell  his  epitome  of  human  excellence.  Carlyle  spoke 
once  as  if  he  wished  poets  to  be  our  statesmen ; fancy  Burns 
Prime  Minister ! ” Then  he  said  to  me,  “ Do  you  know  the 
Odyssey  ? I like  it  better  as  a whole  than  the  Iliad:  I should 
have  met  you  before ; why  didn’t  you  write  ? I could  teach 
you  Greek  in  a month,  then  perhaps  (quoting  my  poem 
called  ‘The  Poet’s  Daily  Bread’)  you  would  scorn  me  with 
bitter  scorn.”  I laughed.  “ I will  send  you  the  Odyssey , I 
have  two  copies  in  my  portmanteau ; I will  be  grave  when 
next  I meet  you ; I vary.”  In  the  course  of  conversation  he 
said,  “ Some  parts  of  The  Book  of  Revelation  are  finer  in  English 
than  in  Greek,  e.g.  ‘ And  again  they  said  “ Alleluia  ” and  their 
smoke  went  up  forever  and  ever1,’  — magnificent  conception, 
darkness  and  fire  rolling  together,  for  ever  and  ever.” 

1 He  would  quote  the  tenth  chapter  with  boundless  admiration : u And 
I saw  another  mighty  angel  come  down  from  heaven,  clothed  with  a cloud... 
and  he  set  his  right  foot  upon  the  sea,  and  his  left  foot  on  the  earth...  And 
the  angel  which  I saw  stand  upon  the  sea  and  upon  the  earth  lifted  up  his 
hand  to  heaven,  and  sware  by  him  that  liveth  for  ever  and  ever,  who  created 
heaven,  and  the  things  that  therein  are,  and  the  earth,  and  the  things  that 
therein  are,  and  the  sea,  and  the  things  that  are  therein,  that  there  should  be 
time  no  longer,”  or,  as  he  translated  it,  u that  time  should  be  no  more.” 


28o 


1846-1850. 


[l848 


Letters , 1848-9. 

To  Aubrey  de  Vere  ( after  a visit  to 
Scotland  in  1848). 

Cheltenham,  Oct . 

My  dear  Aubrey, 

I have  just  now  on  my  return  to  Cheltenham 
got  two  letters  from  you,  for  I am  one,  as  you  know,  who 
wander  to  and  fro  for  months  careless  of  P.  O.  and 
correspondences.  I am  grieved  to  have  occasioned  you 
so  much  trouble  about  the  article,  but  let  it  pass,  excuses 
will  not  mend  it:  neither  will  I mention  the  money1 
troubles  I have  had,  for  they  are  dead  and  buried,  tho’ 
you  bribe  with  your  “ great  piece  of  news,”  which  I take 
it  must  mean  that  you  are  going  to  be  married  ! is  it  so  ? 
if  so,  joy  to  you.  I am  glad  that  you  have  thought  of 
me  at  Kilkee  by  the  great  deeps.  The  sea  is  my  delight,, 
tho’  Mr  Chretien  in  the  Christian  Examiner  says  that  I 
have  no  power  upon  him  and  always  represent  him  dead 
asleep.  I have  seen  many  fine  things  in  Scotland,  and 
many  fine  things  did  I miss  seeing,  rolled  up  as  they 
were  tenfold  in  Scotch  mists.  Loch  Awe  too,  which 
you  call  the  finest,  I saw.  It  is  certainly  very  grand, 
tho’  the  pass  disappointed  me.  I thought  of  Words- 
worth’s lines  there,  and,  approving  much,  disapproved 
of  much  in  them.  What  can  be  worse  than  to  say  to  old 
Kilchurn  Castle, 

“Take  then  thy  seat,  vicegerent  unreproved”? 

Surely,  master  Aubrey,  that  is  puffed  and  false.  I 
steamed  from  Oban  to  Skye,  a splendid  voyage,  for  the 
whole  day,  with  the  exception  of  three  hours  in  the 

1 His  friends  tried  to  persuade  him  to  write  popular  short  poems  in 
magazines,  but,  however  poor  he  might  be,  he  never  could  or  would  write  a 
line  for  money  offered. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SCOTLAND. 


28l 


1848] 

morning,  was  blue  and  sunny;  and  I think  I saw  more 
outlines  of  hills  than  ever  I saw  in  my  life ; and  exqui- 
sitely shaped  are  those  Skye  mountains.  Loch  Corusk, 
said  to  be  the  wildest  scene  in  the  Highlands,  I failed  in 
seeing.  After  a fatiguing  expedition  over  the  roughest 
ground  on  a wet  day  we  arrived  at  the  banks  of  the  loch, 
and  made  acquaintance  with  the  extremest  tiptoes  of  the 
hills,  all  else  being  thick  wool-white  fog.  Dunkeld  is 
lovely,  and  I delighted  in  Inverary,  tho’  there  likewise  I 
got  drenched  to  the  skin,  till  my  very  hat  wept  tears  of 
ink.  I rejoiced  in  Killeen,  but  on  the  whole  perhaps 
I enjoyed  no  day  more  than  the  one  I spent  at  Kirk 
Alloway  by  the  monument  of  poor  Burns,  and  the  or- 
chards, and  “ banks  and  braes  of  bonny  Doon.”  I made 
a pilgrimage  thither  out  of  love  for  the  great  peasant; 
they  were  gathering  in  the  wheat  and  the  spirit  of  the 
man  mingled  or  seemed  to  mingle  with  all  I saw.  I 
know  you  do  not  care  much  for  him,  but  I do,  and  hold 
that  there  never  was  immortal  poet  if  he  be  not  one. 
Farewell.  Give  my  best  love  and  remembrances  to  all 
yours,  and 

Believe  me  ever  yours, 

A. 

To  Aubrey  de  Vere. 

[ Undated.  ] 

My  dear  Aubrey, 

I have  just  returned  to  this  place  whence  I 
think  I wrote  to  you  last,  and  hither  your  letter  after 
travelling  Cheltenhamward  and  otherwhere  followed  me. 
I assure  you  I experienced  a very  lively  gratification  in 
finding  that  my  recent  alterations  1 had  met  your  approval 
and  not  yours  only  but  your  mothers  and  sister’s.  I am 
still  not  quite  satisfied  with  it,  and  I think  that  one  or 
two  of  the  ballads  might  be  improved  or  others  substi- 
tuted, but  1 have  done  with  it  at  present.  I gave  it  up 

1 In  “The  Princess.” 


282 


1846-1850. 


[l848 


to  the  printer  in  a rage  at  last  and  left  London,  not 
having  revised  the  last  proofs,  and  so  I see  there  is  a 
mistake  or  two,  for  instance  “ marbled  stairs  ” which  is 
vile.  Don’t  you  think  too  that  the  Dedication  to  Harry 
Lushington  looks  very  queer,  dated  “January,  ’48,”  the 
French  row  taking  place  in  the  February  following,  and 
such  allusions  and  the  subsequent  ones  made  in  the 
Epilogue!  Well,  I suppose  that  does  not  much  matter, 
and  I am  as  I said  vastly  gratified  with  your  good 
opinion  of  the  improvements. 

I wrote  so  far  — now  I am  in  town  for  a week  or  so. 

Now  for  your  two  queries. 

I have  not  the  Edinburgh  with  me,  and  so  cannot 
give  you  the  exact  passage  in  the  critique ; but  I know 
there  is  mention  made  therein  of  “The  Princess”  coming 
out  among  the  dying  and  the  dead.  Now  I certainly 
did  not  mean  to  kill  anyone,  and  therefore  I put  this 
new  line  into  the  old  king’s  mouth, 

I trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death, 
and  in  the  old  tourneys  it  really  did  happen  now  and 
then  that  there  was  only  a certain  amount  of  bruises 
and  bangs  and  no  death.  Perhaps  the  Editor,  not  you, 
inserted  the  passage.  With  respect  to  the  “Elegies1,” 
I cannot  say  that  I have  turned  my  attention  to  them 
lately.  I do  not  know  whether  I have  done  anything  new 
in  that  quarter  since  you  saw  them,  but  I believe  I am 
going  to  print  them,  and  then  I need  not  tell  you  that 
you  will  be  perfectly  welcome  to  a copy,  on  the  condition 
that  when  the  book  is  published,  this  avant-courier  of  it 
shall  be  either  sent  back  to  me,  or  die  the  death  by  fire 
in  Curragh  Chase.  I shall  print  about  twenty-five  copies, 
and  let  them  out  among  friends  under  the  same  condi- 
tion of  either  return  or  cremation.  The  review  in  the 
Westminster  was  not  one  of  “ The  Princess,”  but  of  two 
or  three  of  the  old  Poems. 


1 u In  Memoriam.” 


1849]  MRS  GASKELL  AND  SAMUEL  BAMFORD. 


283 


I have  sent  you  a most  shabby  note  in  return  for 
your  long  and  agreeable  one,  but  pray  forgive  me  : I have 
such  a heap  of  correspondence  just  now,  half  of  which 
will  never  get  answered  at  all. 

Love  to  your  brother  and  his  wife,  your  mother  and 
sister.  I don’t  know,  but  I feel  quite  sorry  that  Caroline 
(Standish)  is  married.  She  did  so  well  unmarried,  and 
looked  so  pure  and  maidenly  that  I feel  it  quite  a pity 
that  she  should  have  changed  her  state. 

Ever  yours,  dear  Aubrey, 

A.  Tennyson. 

The  following  four  letters  refer  to  what  my  father 
called  “ the  highest  honour  I have  yet  received.” 

(1)  From  Mrs  G ask  ell  to  John  Forster. 

Manchester,  Oct.  8th,  1849. 

I want  to  ask  for  your  kind  offices.  You  know  Tennyson, 
and  you  know  who  Samuel  Bamford  is,  a great,  gaunt,  stalwart 
Lancashire  man,  formerly  hand-loom  weaver,  author  of  Life  of  a 
Radical , age  nearly  70,  and  living  in  that  state  which  is  exactly 
decent  poverty  with  his  neat  little  apple-faced  wife.  They  have 
lost  their  only  child.  Bamford  is  the  most  hearty  (and  it’s  saying 
a good  deal)  admirer  of  Tennyson  I know.  I dislike  recitations 
exceedingly,  but  he  repeats  some  of  Tennyson’s  poems  in  so 
rapt  and  yet  so  simple  a manner,  utterly  forgetting  that  anyone 
is  by  in  the  delight  of  the  music  and  the  exquisite  thoughts,  that 
one  can’t  help  liking  to  hear  him.  He  does  not  care  one  jot 
whether  people  like  him  or  not  in  his  own  intense  enjoyment. 
He  says  when  he  lies  awake  at  night,  as  in  his  old  age  he  often 
does,  and  gets  sadly  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  gone  when 
his  child  was  alive,  he  soothes  himself  by  repeating  T.’s  poems. 
I asked  him  the  other  day  if  he  had  got  them  of  his  own.  “No,” 
he  said  rather  mournfully : he  had  been  long  looking  out  for  a 
second-hand  copy,  but  somehow  they  had  not  got  into  the  old 
book-shops,  and  14 s.  or  1 8s.  (which  are  they  ?)  was  too  much  for 
a poor  man,  and  then  he  brightened  up  and  said,  Thank  God  he 
had  a good  memory,  and  whenever  he  got  into  a house  where 
there  were  Tennyson’s  poems  he  learnt  as  many  as  he  could  by 


284 


1846-1850. 


[l84£> 


heart.  He  thought  he  knew  better  than  twelve,  and  began 
“ CEnone,”  and  then  the  “ Sleeping  Beauty.”  Now  I wonder  if 
you  catch  a glimpse  of  what  I want.  I thought  at  first  of  giving 
him  the  poems  this  Xmas,  but  then  I thought  you  would  perhaps 
ask  Tennyson  if  he  would  give  Bamford  a copy  from  himself  \ 
which  would  be  glorious  for  the  old  man.  Dear,  how  he  would 
triumph. 

(2)  To  John  Forster . 

Mablethorpe,  Alford, 
Lincolnshire.  1849. 

My  dear  Forster, 

I got  both  your  notes  almost  at  the  same 
time.  I have  been  flying  about  from  house  to  house  for 
a long  time,  and  yours  was  delivered  to  me  at  a place 
called  Scremby  Hall  in  this  county  where  I was  making 
a morning  call.  All  that  account  of  Sam.  Bamford  is 
very  interesting  indeed.  I reckon  his  admiration  as  the 
highest  honour  I have  yet  received.  A lady  was  so 
charmed  with  the  relation  that  I gave  her  the  letter.  Of 
course  I will  give  him  a copy  but  I shall  not  be  in  town 
for  a fortnight.  The  first  thing  I do  will  be  to  call  at 
Moxon’s  and  get  him  one.  I am  here  on  this  desolate 
sea-coast.  My  friends  have  feted  me  in  this  county 
so  long  that  I think  it  high  time  to  move,  but  they  will 
not  let  me  go  yet.  How  have  you  been,  my  dear  boy? 
I trust  well.  In  the  hope  of  seeing  you  as  soon  as 
possible, 

I am,  yours  as  ever, 

A.  Tennyson1. 


(3)  From  Mrs  Gaskell  to  John  Forster . 

Friday,  Dec . 7 th,  1849. 

I have  not  yet  taken  my  bonnet  off  after  hunting  up 
Bamford.  First  of  all  we  went  to  Blakeley  to  his  little  white- 

1 He  inclosed  to  Forster  for  the  Examiner , March  24th,  u You  might  have 
won  the  poet’s  fame”:  reprinted  in  the  Poems  (sixth  ed.),  1850. 


285 


1849 J MRS  GASKELL  AND  SAMUEL  BAMFORD. 

washed  cottage.  His  wife  was  cleaning,  and  regretted  her 
“master”  was  not  at  home.  He  had  gone  into  Manchester, 
where  she  did  not  know.  I shan’t  go  into  the  details  of  the 
hunting  of  this  day.  At  last  we  pounced  upon  the  great  gray 
stalwart  man  coming  out  of  a little  old-fashioned  public-house 
where  Blakeley  people  put  up.  When  I produced  my  book  he 
said,  “This  is  grand.”  I said,  “ Look  at  the  title-page,”  for  I saw 
he  was  fairly  caught  by  something  he  liked  in  the  middle  of  the 
book,  and  was  standing  reading  it  in  the  street.  “ Well,  I am  a 
proud  man  this  day ! ” he  exclaimed.  Then  he  turned  it  up  and 
down  and  read  a bit  (it  was  a very  crowded  street)  and  his  gray 
face  went  quite  brown-red  with  pleasure.  Suddenly  he  stopped. 
“What  must  I do  for  him  back  again  ? ” “ Oh  ! you  must  write 
to  him,  and  thank  him.”  “ I’d  rather  walk  20  mile  than  write  a 
letter  any  day.”  “ Well,  then,  suppose  you  set  off  this  Christmas, 
and  walk  and  thank  Tennyson.”  He  looked  up  from  his  book, 
right  in  my  face,  quite  indignant.  “ Woman  ! walking  won’t 
reach  him.  We’re  on  the  earth  don’t  ye  see,  but  he’s  there,  up 
above.  I can  no  more  reach  him  by  walking  than  if  he  were  an 
eagle  or  a skylark  high  above  my  head.”  It  came  fresh,  warm, 
straight  from  the  heart,  without  a motion  or  making  a figurative 
speech,  but  as  if  it  were  literal  truth,  and  I were  a goose  for  not 
being  aware  of  it.  Then  he  dipped  down  again  into  his  book, 
and  began  reading  aloud  the  “ Sleeping  Beauty,”  and  in  the 
middle  stopped  to  look  at  the  writing  again.  And  we  left  him 
in  a sort  of  sleep-walking  state,  and  only  trust  he  will  not  be  run 
over. 


(4)  From  Samuel  Bamford  to  Alfred  Tennyson . 

Blakeley,  Dec.  13th,  1849. 

Dear  Sir, 

Mrs  Gaskell  a few  days  since  presented  to  me  your 
poems,  with  your  autograph,  in  kind  terms,  and  I can  only  say, 
as  to  the  present,  that  I am  very  greatly  obliged ; and  that  you 
could  not  have  done  anything  that  would  have  pleased  me 
better.  Accept  my  most  sincere  thanks. 

Your  poems,  I cannot  forget  them.  I cannot  put  them  away 
from  my  thoughts ; the  persons  and  the  scenes  they  represent 


1846-1850. 


286 


[l849 


haunt  me.  I have  read  them  all  over  and  over,  and  I have  not 
awakened  once  this  night  without 

Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride 

immediately  recurring  to  my  thoughts. 

Oh  ! your  “ Oriana  ” has  started  the  tears  into  my  eyes,  and 
into  those  of  my  dear  wife,  many  a time.  It  is  a deep  thing. 
Your  “Locksley  Hall”  is  terribly  beautiful;  profoundly  impres- 
sive. The  departure  of  your  “Sleeping  Palace”  is  almost  my 
favourite,  and  your  “ Gardener’s  Daughter,”  ah ! it  brings  early 
scenes  to  my  mind. 

The  story  of  my  early  love  that  haunts  me  now  I’m  old, 
And  broods  within  my  very  heart  altho’  ’tis  well-nigh  cold. 

My  wife,  bless  her ! I never  feel  my  sensibilities  gushing 
over,  but  when  I look  I find  hers  are  doing  the  same.  And  it 
has  frequently  been  the  case  since  I was  so  fortunate  as  to  have 
your  poems. 

But  your  English ! why  it  is  almost  unlimitedly  expressive. 
This  language  of  ours,  what  can  it  not  be  made  to  say  ? What 
height,  what  depth  filled  with  all  glorious  hues,  terrible  glooms, 
and  vivid  flashes  does  it  not  combine  and  your  poems  exhibit  all? 

Are  you  well?  Are  you  happy?  I hope  you  are  both. 
Accept  my  kindest  wishes,  and  believe  me  to  be 

Yours  most  truly, 

Samuel  Bamford. 


To  Miss  Holloway  (of  Spilsby)  my  father  wrote 
about  her  cousin  Miss  Jean  Ingelow’s  poems,  A 
Rhyming  Chronicle  of  Incidents  and  Feelings . 

My  dear  Miss  Holloway, 

Many  thanks  for  your  very  kind  note.  I 
have  only  just  returned  to  town,  and  found  the  Rhyming 
Chronicle.  Your  Cousin  must  be  worth  knowing:  there 
are  some  very  charming  things  in  her  book,  at  least  it 
seems  so  to  me,  tho’  I do  not  pique  myself  on  being 
much  of  a critic  at  first  sight,  and  I really  have  only 


JEAN  INGELOW’S  POEMS. 


287 


1849] 

skimmed  a few  pages.  Yet  I think  I may  venture  to 
pronounce  that  she  need  not  be  ashamed  of  publishing 
them.  Certain  things  I saw  which  I count  abomina- 
tions, tho’  I myself  in  younger  days  have  been  guilty 
of  the  same,  and  so  was  Keats.  I would  sooner  lose  a 
pretty  thought  than  enshrine  it  in  such  rhymes  as 
“Eudora”  “before  her,”  “vista”  “sister.”  She  will  get 
to  hate  them  herself  as  she  grows  older,  and  it  would 
be  a pity  that  she  should  let  her  book  go  forth  with 
these  cockneyisms.  If  the  book  were  not  so  good 
I should  not  care  for  these  specks,  but  the  critics  will 
pounce  upon  them,  and  excite  a prejudice.  I declare  I 
should  like  to  know  her. 

I have  such  a heap  of  correspondence  to  answer  that 
I must  bid  you  good-bye.  What  the  German  lady  says 
is  very  gratifying.  I shall  perhaps  see  you  again  in  the 
autumn.  My  best  remembrances  to  each  and  all  of  your 
circle. 

Ever  yours  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 

P.S.  Strange!  that  I did  not  see  it.  I turn  to  the 
title-page,  and  find  the  book  is  published.  I fancied  it 
had  only  been  printed.  Forgive  my  hurry ! Well,  your 
cousin  will  amend,  perhaps,  the  errors  I have  mentioned, 
in  her  next  edition. 


On  the  invitation  of  Aubrey  de  Vere,  my  father  paid 
his  second  visit  to  Ireland ; but  he  has  left  no  record 
of  his  tour.  At  my  request  Mr  de  Vere  has  kindly 
written  the  following  account : to  which  he  has  added 
some  reminiscences  of  his  first  hearing  “ In  Memoriam  ” 
read  in  1850. 

In  the  year  1848  Alfred  Tennyson  had  felt  a craving  to  make 
a lonely  sojourn  at  Bude:  “I  hear,”  he  said,  “ that  there  are  larger 
waves  there  than  on  any  other  part  of  the  British  coast : and 
must  go  thither  and  be  alone  with  God.”  I persuaded  him  to 


288 


1846-1850. 


1848- 


come  also  to  Ireland  where  the  waves  are  far  higher  and  the 
cliffs  often  rise  to  800  feet  and  in  one  spot,  Slieve  League,  to 
2000  : while  at  the  mountain’s  landward  side  are  still  shown  the 
“ prayer-stations  ” of  Saint  Columbkill.  He  passed  five  weeks 
with  us  at  Curragh  Chase,  to  us  delightful  weeks.  The  day 
before  our  arrival  we  visited  the  celebrated  “ fall  ” of  the  Shannon 
at  Castleconnel;  over  it  there  hung  a full  moon,  the  largest  I 
have  ever  seen.  The  aspect  might  well  have  shaken  weak 
nerves.  It  looked  as  if  the  “ centrifugal  ” force  had  ceased,  and 
the  vast  luminary  might  come  down  upon  the  earth  in  another 
hour.  That  night  we  slept  in  my  sister’s  house,  and  she  had  the 
satisfaction  of  conversing  with  the  Poet  whose  works  she  had 
fed  on  since  her  girlhood. 

The  weeks  passed  by  only  too  rapidly.  We  drove  our  guest 
to  the  old  Castles  and  Abbeys  in  the  neighbourhood  : he  was 
shocked  at  the  poverty  of  the  peasantry,  and  the  marks  of 
havock  wrought  through  the  country  by  the  great  potato-famine: 
he  read  in  the  library ; and  worked  on  a new  edition  of  “ The 
Princess,”  smoking  at  the  same  time  without  hindrance  in  our 
most  comfortable  bedroom,  and  protected  as  far  as  possible  from 
noise ; he  walked  where  he  pleased  alone,  or  in  company  through 
woods  in  which  it  was  easy  to  lose  oneself,  by  a cave  so  deep 
that  Merlin  might  have  slept  in  it  to  this  day  unawakened.  In 
the  evenings  he  had  vocal  music  from  Lady  de  Vere  and  her 
sister,  Caroline  Standish,  and  Sonatas  of  Mozart  or  Beethoven 
played  by  my  eldest  brother,  with  a power  and  pathos  rare  in  an 
amateur.  Later,  he  read  poetry  to  us  with  a voice  that  doubled 
its  power,  commonly  choosing  pathetic  pieces ; and  on  one 
occasion  after  finishing  ‘‘A  Sorrowful  Tale  ” by  Crabbe,  glanced 
round  reproachfully  and  said,  “ I do  not  see  that  any  of  you  are 
weeping ! ” One  night  we  turned  his  poem  of  “ The  Day-Dream  ” 
into  an  acted  charade ; a beautiful  girl  whom  he  used  to  call 
“that  stately  maid,”  taking  the  part  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty; 
and  the  poet  himself  tnat  of  the  Prince  who  broke  the  spell  of 
her  slumber.  Another  night  there  was  a dance  which  he  de- 
nounced as  a stupid  thing,  while  a brilliant  and  amusing  person, 
Lady  G.,  who  was  accustomed  to  speak  her  mind  to  all  alike, 
scolded  him  sharply.  “ How  would  the  world  get  on  if  others 
went  about  it  growling  at  its  amusements  in  a voice  as  deep  as 
a lion’s  ? I request  that  you  will  go  upstairs,  put  on  an  evening 
coat,  and  ask  my  daughter  Sophia  to  dance.”  He  did  so,  and 


HIS  HIGH  SPIRITS. 


289 


1850] 

was  the  gayest  of  the  gay  for  several  hours,  turning  out  moreover 
an  excellent  dancer.  He  was  liked  all  the  better  for  always 
saying  what  came  into  his  head.  One  day  a young  lady  who 
sat  next  him  at  dinner,  spoke  of  a certain  marriage  just 
announced,  as  a very  penniless  one.  He  rummaged  in  his 
pocket,  extracted  a penny,  and  slapped  it  down  loudly  close  to 
her  plate  saying,  “There,  I give  you  that,  for  that  is  the  God 
you  worship.”  The  girl  was  a little  frightened,  but  more 
amused : they  made  friends ; and  he  promised  to  send  her  a 
pocket  copy  of  Milton.  Some  months  later  she  received  one 
from  England,  beautifully  bound. 

It  was  a time  of  political  excitement,  and  Ireland  was  on 
the  brink  of  that  silly  attempt  at  rebellion  which  put  back  all 
her  serious  interests  for  a quarter  of  a century.  Half  Europe 
was  in  revolt  and  the  prophets  of  the  day  averred  that  England 
might  any  day  find  herself  involved  in  a general  war.  Some 
one  remarked  that  an  invasion  would  be  more  practicable  in 
these  days  of  steamships  than  in  those  of  Nelson  and  Napoleon. 
Tennyson  was  a Patriot-poet  like  Shakespeare,  who  gave  us 
the  glorious  dying  speech  of  “Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honoured 
Lancaster,”  the  Patriot-prince.  His  reply  was,  “ Don’t  let  them 
land  on  England’s  coast,  or  we  will  shatter  them  to  pieces.” 

We  took  care  that  our  guest  should  see  or  hear  something 
of  Ireland’s  quaint  humours  : I must  find  room  for  one  story 
which  especially  amused  him,  and  which  he  often  retold.  Re- 
turning home  recently  after  a fortnight’s  absence,  I had  visited 
our  old  Parish  Priest,  Father  Tim,  and  found  him  at  dinner 
with  his  curate.  It  had  been  a time  of  great  disturbance : 
many  houses  had  been  attacked  by  night,  many  guns  borne 
off  in  triumph,  and  much  blood  shed.  In  answer  to  my  enquiries 
he  said : “ The  country  has  been  quiet  enough,  much  as  usual, 
except  one  disgraceful  outrage,  such  as  no  one  ever  heard  of 
before  in  Ireland.  What  would  you  think,  Sir,  of  a girl  being 
carried  off  by  night,  and  no  car  sent  for  her  ? ” It  had  long 
been  a traditional  usage  in  Ireland,  when  parents  on  unreason- 
able grounds  resisted  their  daughter’s  marriage,  for  her  lover 
and  his  friends  to  carry  her  off,  apparently  by  force,  but  in 
reality  with  her  connivance.  After  a few  days  the  parents  had 
to  accept  what  they  could  not  then  avert;  but  the  abduction 
was  a ceremonial  in  which  the  Sabine  Maid  was  always  treated 
with  entire  respect.  “Sir,  I ask  you,”  said  Father  Tim  to  his 
t.  1.  19 


1846-1850. 


290 


[1848- 


curate,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  his  old  face  flushing 
up,  “as  long  as  you  are  on  the  mission,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
a girl  being  carried  off,  and  no  car  sent  for  her  ? ” “ Never, 

Sir,”  was  the  answer,  “ and  it  would  not  be  a common  car, 
but  a side-car.”  “Yes,”  Father  Tim  rejoined,  “and  moreover 
a woman  would  be  sent  for  her  with  the  party,  to  keep  her 
in  courage.”  “To  be  sure  there  would,”  the  curate  replied; 
“and  a most  respectable  woman.”  For  several  minutes  the 
affirmation  and  the  response  were  alternated  more  and  more 
loudly  and  with  stronger  gesticulations;  “A  car  would  be  sent ! ” 
“Aye,  and  a side-car!”  “A  woman  would  be  sent!”  “Aye, 
and  a most  respectable  woman  ! ” The  old  priest  ended,  “ I am 
afraid  old  Ireland  is  going  to  the  bad ! Well,  thank  Heaven 
it  did  not  happen  in  my  parish ; but  it  happened  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  it ! A girl  of  the  Molonys,  one  of  the  old 
stock ! ” Neither  priest  finished  his  poor  dinner  of  bacon  and 
cabbage  that  day.  This  violation  of  traditional  etiquette  led 
to  consequences  which  justified  Father  Tim’s  last  words,  “Well, 
God  is  good!  it  did  not  happen  in  my  parish!”  For  more 
than  two  years  that  parish  had  been  the  prey  of  eight  marauders 
who  roamed  at  large,  plundering  or  making  the  farmers  pay 
black-mail.  They  defied  alike  magistrate,  police  and  country- 
gentlemen  ; for  though  everyone  knew  who  they  were,  no  one 
dared  to  give  information.  Not  so  that  daughter  of  the  old 
stock.  The  rogues  had  carried  her  to  the  house  of  an  old 
woman  in  complicity  with  the  enterprise,  but  who,  on  recogniz- 
ing in  the  girl  a fifth  cousin  of  her  aunt’s,  placed  her  in  her 
own  bed  and  sent  off  the  adventurers  without  a glass  of  whisky. 
At  the  risk  of  her  life  the  girl  went  to  a magistrate,  gave  infor- 
mation against  the  gang,  and  promised  to  swear  to  it  in  Court, 
on  one  condition.  It  was  that  one  man  should  not  be  pro- 
ceeded against.  The  other  seven,  she  affirmed,  were  blackguards, 
who  had  not  so  much  as  given  her  time  to  dress  herself  “anyway 
tidy  ” ; and  who  had  dragged  her  without  a shoe  on  her  feet 
through  three  muddy  fields ; but  there  was  one  man  of  a better 
sort  who  had  “ behaved  mighty  polished  ” to  her,  hoisting  her 
up  on  his  shoulders  once  when  they  crossed  a bog.  The 
“polished”  man  was  forgiven,  and  probably  begged  pardon 
of  Father  Tim,  and  returned  to  his  duties  : the  other  seven  were 
transported,  and  probably  made  their  fortunes  in  the  Colonies  ; 
and  the  parish  had  peace. 


1850 ] VISIT  TO  VALENCIA,  29 1 

Alfred  Tennyson’s  desire  to  see  cliffs  and  waves  revived, 
and  we  sent  him  to  our  cousin,  Maurice  FitzGerald,  Knight 
of  Kerry,  who  lived  at  Valencia  where  they  are  seen  at  their 
best.  On  his  way  thither  he  slept  at  Mount  Trenchard,  the 
residence  of  Lord  Monteagle,  and  I led  him  to  the  summit  of 
Knock  Patrick,  the  farthest  spot  in  the  South  West  to  which 
Ireland’s  Apostle,  Patriarch  and  Patron,  advanced.  There  while 
from  far  and  near  from  both  sides  of  the  Shannon  the  people 
flocked  round  him,  Saint  Patrick  preached  his  far-famed  sermon 
and  gave  his  benediction  to  the  Land,  its  mountains  and  its 
plains,  its  pastures,  its  forests,  its  rivers  and  the  sands  under 
the  rivers.  The  sunset  was  one  of  extraordinary  but  minatory 
beauty.  It  gave,  I remember,  a darksome  glory  to  the  vast  and 
desolate  expanse  with  all  its  creeks  and  inlets  from  the  Shannon, 
lighted  the  green  islands  in  the  mouth  of  the  Fergus,  fired  the 
ruined  Castle  of  Shanid,  a stronghold  of  the  Desmonds,  one 
of  a hundred  which  they  were  said  to  have  possessed.  The 
western  clouds  hung  low,  a mass  of  crimson  and  gold ; while, 
from  the  ledge  of  a nearer  one,  down  plunged  a glittering  flood 
empurpled  like  wine.  The  scene  was  a thoroughly  Irish  one ; 
and  gave  a stormy  welcome  to  the  Sassenach  Bard.  The  next 
morning  he  pursued  his  way  alone  to  Valencia.  He  soon  wrote 
that  he  had  enjoyed  it.  He  had  found  there  the  highest  waves 
that  Ireland  knows,  cliffs  that  at  one  spot  rise  to  the  height  of 
600  feet,  tamarisks  and  fuchsias  that  no  sea-winds  can  in- 
timidate, and  the  old  “Knight  of  Kerry,”  who,  at  the  age  of 
nearly  80,  preserved  the  spirits,  the  grace  and  the  majestic 
beauty  of  days  gone  by  — as  chivalrous  a representative  of  Des- 
mond’s great  Norman  House  as  it  had  ever  put  forth  in  those 
times  when  it  fought  side  by  side  with  the  greatest  Gaelic 
Houses,  for  Ireland’s  ancient  faith,  and  the  immemorial  rights 
of  its  Palatinate1.  Afterwards  Tennyson  visited  Killarney  but 

1 On  his  eighty-second  birthday  my  father  received  the  following  letter : 

Calverley  Park,  Tunbridge  Wells, 

August  6th,  1891. 

“ Long  life  to  your  honour,1’  as  Irish  peasants  used  to  say,  and  so 
say  I,  the  man  who  was  working  the  State  quarry,  on  the  Island  of  Valencia, 
when  you  spent  a few  days  there  in  1848,  Chartist  times  in  London  and 
Fenian  times  in  Ireland.  I remember  your  telling  us,  not  without  some 
glee,  how  a Valencian  Fenian  stealthily  dogged  your  footsteps  up  the 


292 


1846-1850. 


[1848- 


remained  there  only  a few  days  ; yet  that  visit  bequeathed  a 
memorial.  The  echoes  of  the  bugle  at  Killarney  on  that  love- 
liest of  lakes  inspired  the  song  introduced  into  the  second  edi- 
tion of  his  “ Princess,”  beginning 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls. 

It  is  but  due  to  Killarney  that  both  the  parents  of  that  lyric 
should  be  remembered  in  connection  with  “ that  fair  child  be- 
tween them  born”;  and  through  that  song,  Killarney  will  be  re- 
called to  the  memory  of  many  who  have  seen  yet  half  forgotten 
it.  When  they  read  those  stanzas,  and  yet  more  when  they 
hear  them  fittingly  sung,  they  will  see  again,  as  in  a dream, 
the  reach  of  its  violet-coloured  waters  where  they  reflect  the 
“ Purple  Mountain,”  the  “Elfland”  of  its  Black  Valley,  “ Croom- 
a-doof,”  the  silver  river  that  winds  and  flashes  through  wood  and 
rock,  connecting  the  mystic  “Upper  Lake,”  and  the  beetling 
rock  of  the  “ Eagle’s  Nest”  with  the  two  larger  and  sunnier  but 
not  lovelier  lakes.  Before  them  again  will  rise  Dinis  Island, 
with  its  embowered  coves  and  their  golden  sands,  the  mountain 
gardens  of  Glena  haunted  by  murmurs  of  the  cascade,  not 
distant,  but  shrouded  by  the  primeval  oak-woods.  They  will 
look  again  on  that  island,  majestic  at  once  and  mournful,  Inis- 
fallen,  its  grey-stemmed  and  solemn  groves,  its  undulating  lawns, 

mountain  and  coming  at  last  close  to  your  ear,  whispered,  “Be  you  from 
France?” 

Your  sonorous  reading  to  us  after  dinner  sundry  truculent  passages  in 
Daniel  O’Connell’s  History  of  Ireland , which  happened  to  be  lying  on  my 
table,  has  lingered  in  my  ears  ever  since.  Seeing  among  my  few  books  all 
that  your  friend  Carlyle  had  up  to  that  time  published,  you  told  me  you 
thought  he  had  nothing  more  to  say.  I was  often  reminded  of  this  whilst 
reading  his  subsequent  Cromwell  and  Frederick  and  Latter  Days,  and  how 
near  that  was  to  the  truth.  You  will  hardly  have  forgotten  the  old  Knight 
of  Kerry,  the  owner  of  the  Island,  his  dignified  presence  and  his  redolence 
of  Grattan  and  Curran  and  Castlereagh  and  the  Irish  Parliament  in  which 
he  sat  for  many  years.  I don’t  know  whether  “the  rude  imperious  surge” 
which  lashes  the  sounding  shore  of  the  Island  ever  drew  from  you,  as  I had 
hoped,  some  “ hoarse  rough  verse,”  some  of  that  roar,  which  tells  us,  as 
“ music  tells  us,  of  what  in  all  our  life  we  have  never  known,  and  never  will 
know.” 

With  the  “ troops  of  friends  ” this  day  wishing  you  long  life,  heartily  joins 
the  ci-devant  quarryman  and 

Yours  truly,  Bewicke  Blackburne. 

{Now  also  Octogenarian .) 


1850] 


THE  BEAUTIES  OF  KILLARNEY. 


293 


which  embosom  the  ruins  of  that  Abbey,  the  shelter  from  cen- 
tury to  century  of  Ireland’s  Annalists.  They  will  muse  again 
in  the  yew-roofed  cloister  of  Muckross,  and  glide  once  more  by 
its  caverned  and  fantastic  rocks,  and  promontories  fringed  by 
arbutus  brakes,  with  their  dark  yet  shining  leaves,  their  scarlet 
berries  and  their  waxen  flowers.  Whatever  is  fairest  in  other 
lakes  they  will  see  here  combined,  as  if  Nature  had  amused 
herself  by  publishing  a volume  of  poetic  selections  from  all 
her  works.  As  the  vision  fades,  their  eyes  will  rest  long  on  the 
far  mountains  that  girdle  all  that  beauty,  mountains  here  and 
there  dark  with  those  yew-forests  through  which  the  wild  deer 
of  old  escaped  from  the  stag-hounds  of  MacCarthymore.  It  is 
marvellous  that  so  many  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  Killarney 
should  have  found  place  in  a poem  so  short. 

We  met  next  in  London.  Few  of  the  hours  I spent  with 
Alfred  survive  with  such  a pathetic  sweetness  and  nearness  in 
my  recollection  as  those  which  are  associated  with  that  time 
and  with  “ In  Memoriam,”  which,  as  he  told  me,  he  once  thought 
of  entitling  “ Fragments  of  an  Elegy.”  Soon  after  this  he  pub- 
lished the  poem. 

I went  to  him  very  late  each  night,  and  he  read  many  of  the 
poems  to  me  or  discussed  them  with  me  till  the  early  hours 
of  the  morning.  The  tears  often  ran  down  his  face  as  he  read, 
without  the  slightest  apparent  consciousness  of  them  on  his 
part.  The  pathos  and  grandeur  of  these  poems  were  to  me 
greatly  increased  by  the  voice  which  rather  intoned  than  recited 
them,  and  which,  as  was  obvious,  could  not  possibly  have  given 
them  utterance  in  any  manner  not  thus  musical.  Sometimes 
towards  the  close  of  a stanza  his  voice  dropped ; but  I avoided 
the  chance  of  thus  losing  any  part  of  the  meaning  by  sitting 
beside  him,  and  glancing  at  the  pieces  he  read.  They  were 
written  in  a long  and  narrow  manuscript  book,  which  assisted 
him  to  arrange  the  poems  in  due  order  by  bringing  many  of 
them  at  once  before  his  eye.  As  I walked  home  alone  in  the 
early  mornings,  the  noises  had  ceased  in  each  “ long  unlovely 
street  ” ; and  the  deep  voice  which  had  so  long  charmed  me 
followed  me  still,  and  seemed  to  waft  me  along  as  if  I had 
glided  onward  half-asleep  in  a gondola.  I have  ever  regarded 
“ In  Memoriam  ” as  the  finest  of  the  Poet’s  works.  As  in  the 
case  of  Dante,  a great  sorrow  had  been  the  harbinger  of  a song 
greater  still : Dante  had  vowed  to  celebrate  Beatrice  as  no  other 


294  1846-1850.  [1848-50 

woman  had  ever  been  celebrated  ; and  he  kept  that  vow.  The 
Northern  Poet  had  also  in  early  youth  lost  his  chief  friend,  and 
after  the  lapse  of  seventeen  years  commended  him  to  a fame  such 
as  neither  “Lycidas”  nor  “Adonais”  had  ever  inherited.  Many 
of  Tennyson’s  poems  are  “ of  imagination  all  compact.”  In  “ In 
Memoriam  ” imagination  claims  less,  comparatively,  to  win  more. 
In  this  work  each  successive  feeling  and  thought  ascend  from 
the  depths  of  the  Poet’s  heart,  as  the  fountain’s  bubbles  mount 
from  the  gold  sands  beneath  it,  and  pass  thence  through  the 
imagination,  in  progress  to  the  sympathies  of  mankind.  Natural 
description  is  here  too  invested  with  its  finest  function,  for 
throughout  it  blends  itself  most  subtly  with  the  human  affections, 
now  adding  to  their  sorrow,  and  now  assuaging  it : and  here 
Poetic  Art  finds  its  aptest  opportunities,  for  each  of  the  pieces, 
while  it  constitutes  part  of  a great  whole,  is  itself  so  brief  that 
it  admits  of  the  highest,  most  palpable  perfection  of  shape. 
Tennyson  was  a true  artist  because  he  was  not  an  artist  only. 
He  understood  the  relations  in  which  Art  stands  to  Nature  and 
to  fact.  An  incident  will  illustrate  this  remark.  It  had  often 
seemed  to  me  that  though  “ In  Memoriam  ” had  been  designed 
by  its  author  chiefly  as  a monument  raised  to  his  friend,  it 
was  also  regarded  by  him  as  a work  which  carried  a spiritual 
teaching  with  it : it  taught  that  the  history  of  a great  sorrow 
is  the  history  of  a soul ; and  that  a soul  which  passes  bravely 
through  the  dark  shadow  of  the  planet  of  grief  must,  on  emerging 
thence,  meet  the  sunrise  at  its  remoter  side.  Long  after  the  pub- 
lication of  In  Memoriam  ” I reminded  him  of  what  he  had  let 
fall  on  that  subject,  and  added  that  such  a scheme  of  poetic  thought 
if  carried  out  to  the  full,  would  create,  in  a lyrical  form,  a work 
not  without  much  analogy  to  Dante’s  Divina  Commedia , the 
first  part  of  which  is  all  woe,  though  the  latter  cantos  of  the 
second  part,  the  “ Purgatorio,”  abound  in  consolation  and  peace  ; 
while  the  third  part,  the  “ Paradiso,”  is  the  song  of  triumph  and 
of  joy.  I remarked  that  many  of  the  later  pieces  in  the  second 
part  of  “ In  Memoriam  ” were  also  songs  of  consolation  and 
peace,  and  suggested  that  perhaps  he  might  at  some  later  time 
give  to  the  whole  work  its  third  part,  or  Paradise.  The  poet’s 
answer  was  this  : “ I have  written  what  I have  felt  and  known ; 
and  I will  never  write  anything  else.” 


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From  an  Original  MS. 


CHAPTER  XIV* 


“IN  MEMORIAM.” 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O Sea! 

And  I would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 

But  O for  the  touch  of  a vanish’d  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O Sea! 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Half  a mile  to  the  south  of  Clevedon  in  Somerset- 
shire, on  a lonely  hill,  stands  Clevedon  Church,  “ obscure 
and  solitary,”  overlooking  a wide  expanse  of  water, 
where  the  Severn  flows  into  the  Bristol  Channel.  It  is 
dedicated  to  St  Andrew,  the  chancel  being  the  original 
fishermen’s  chapel. 

From  the  graveyard  you  can  hear  the  music  of  the 
tide  as  it  washes  against  the  low  cliffs  not  a hundred 
yards  away.  In  the  manor  aisle  of  the  church,  under 


* Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

295 


IN  MEMORIAM, 


296 


u 


J5 


[1850 


which  is  the  vault  of  the  Hallams,  may  be  read  this 
epitaph  to  Arthur  Hallam,  written  by  his  father: 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM 

ELDEST  SON  OF  HENRY  HALLAM  ESQUIRE 
AND  OF  JULIA  MARIA  HIS  WIFE 
DAUGHTER  OF  SIR  ABRAHAM  ELTON  BARONET 
OF  CLEVEDON  COURT 


WHO  WAS  SNATCHED  AWAY  BY  SUDDEN  DEATH 
AT  VIENNA  ON  SEPTEMBER  15™  1833 
IN  THE  TWENTY-THIRD  YEAR  OF  HIS  AGE 
AND  NOW  IN  THIS  OBSCURE  AND  SOLITARY  CHURCH 
REPOSE  THE  MORTAL  REMAINS  OF 
ONE  TOO  EARLY  LOST  FOR  PUBLIC  FAME 
BUT  ALREADY  CONSPICUOUS  AMONG  HIS  CONTEMPORARIES 
FOR  THE  BRIGHTNESS  OF  HIS  GENIUS 
THE  DEPTH  OF  HIS  UNDERSTANDING 
THE  NOBLENESS  OF  HIS  DISPOSITION 
THE  FERVOUR  OF  HIS  PIETY 
AND  THE  PURITY  OF  HIS  LIFE 

VALE  DULCISSIME 

VALE  DELECTISSIME  DESIDERATISSIME 
REQUIESCAS  IN  PACE 

PATER  AC  MATER  HIC  POSTHAC  REQUIESCAMUS  TECUM 
USQUE  AD  TUBAM 


In  this  part  of  the  church  there  is  also  another  tablet 
to  the  memory  of  Henry  Hallam,  the  epitaph  written  by 
my  father:  who  thought  the  simpler  the  epitaph,  the 
better  it  would  become  the  simple  and  noble  man,  whose 
work  speaks  for  him  : 

HERE  WITH  HIS  WIFE  AND  CHILDREN  RESTS 


HENRY  HALLAM  THE  HISTORIAN 


1850]  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  “ IN  MEMORIAM.”  297 

It  was  not  until  May  1850  that  “ In  Memoriam”  was 
printed  and  given  to  a few  friends.  Shortly  afterwards 
it  was  published,  first  of  all  anonymously,  but  the 
authorship  was  soon  discovered. 

The  earliest  jottings,  begun  in  1 833,  of  the  “ Elegies  ” as 
they  were  then  called,  were  nearly  lost  in  a London  lodging, 
for  my  father  was  always  careless  about  his  manuscripts. 

Mr  Coventry  Patmore  wrote  to  me  about  this : 

The  letter  from  your  father  concerning  the  MS  of  “In 
Memoriam  ” I gave  to  the  late  Sir  John  Simeon,  thinking  that 
he  ought  to  have  it,  as  he  had  the  MS1  itself.  This  letter  asked 
me  to  visit  the  lodging  in  Mornington  Place,  Hampstead  Road, 
which  he  had  occupied  two  or  three  weeks  before,  and  to  try  to 
recover  the  MS,  which  he  had  left  in  a closet  where  he  was  used 
to  keep  some  of  his  provisions.  The  landlady  said  that  no  such 
book  had  been  left,  but  I insisted  on  looking  for  it  myself,  and 
found  it  where  your  father  said  it  was. 

The  letter  alluded  to  is  given  below : 

Bonchurch,  I.  W., 
Feb.  2 8?h,  1850. 

My  dear  Coventry, 

I went  up  to  my  room  yesterday  to  get  my 
book  of  Elegies  : you  know  what  I mean,  a long,  butcher- 
ledger-like  book.  I was  going  to  read  one  or  two  to  an 
artist  here  : I could  not  find  it.  I have  some  obscure 
remembrance  of  having  lent  it  to  you.  If  so,  all  is  well, 
if  not,  will  you  go  to  my  old  chambers  and  institute  a 
vigorous  inquiry  ? I was  coming  up  to-day  on  purpose 
to  look  after  it,  but  as  the  weather  is  so  furious  I have 
yielded  to  the  wishes  of  my  friends  here  to  stop  till 
to-morrow.  I shall  be,  I expect,  in  town  to-morrow  at 
25  M.  P.  when  I shall  be  glad  to  see  you.  At  9.10  p.m. 
the  train  in  which  I come  sets  into  London.  I shall  be 

1 This  MS,  given  to  Sir  John  Simeon  by  my  father,  has  been  generously 
returned  to  me  by  Lady  Simeon. 


298 


IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

in  Mornington  Place  about  10  o’clock  I suppose.  Perhaps 
you  would  in  your  walk  Museum-ward  call  on  Mrs 
Lloyd  and  tell  her  to  prepare  for  me.  With  best  remem- 
brances to  Mrs  Patmore, 

Believe  me  ever  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 

At  first  the  reviews  of  the  volume  were  not  on  the 
whole  sympathetic.  One  critic  in  a leading  journal,  for 
instance,  considered  that  “ a great  deal  of  poetic  feeling 
had  been  wasted,”  and  “ much  shallow  art  spent  on  the 
tenderness  shown  to  an  Amaryllis  of  the  Chancery 
Bar.”  Another  referred  to  the  poem  as  follows : “ These 
touching  lines  evidently  come  from  the  full  heart  of  the 
widow  of  a military  man.”  However,  men  like  Maurice 
and  Robertson  thought  that  the  author  had  made  a defi- 
nite step  towards  the  unification  of  the  highest  religion 
and  philosophy  with  the  progressive  science  of  the  day ; 
and  that  he  was  the  one  poet  who  “ through  almost  the 
agonies  of  a death-struggle  ” had  made  an  effective 
stand  against  his  own  doubts  and  difficulties  and  those 
of  the  time,  “on  behalf  of  those  first  principles  which 
underlie  all  creeds,  which  belong  to  our  earliest  child- 
hood, and  on  which  the  wisest  and  best  have  rested 
through  all  ages  ; that  all  is  right ; that  darkness  shall  be 
clear;  that  God  and  Time  are  the  only  interpreters  ; that 
Love  is  King;  that  the  Immortal  is  in  us;  that,  which 
is  the  keynote  of  the  whole,  ‘All  is  well,  tho’  Faith  and 
Form  be  sundered  in  the  night  of  Fear1.’”  Scientific 
leaders  like  Herschel,  Owen,  Sedgwick  and  Tyndall 
regarded  him  as  a champion  of  Science,  and  cheered 

1 Robertson  goes  so  far  as  to  say : “To  my  mind  and  heart  the  most 
satisfactory  things  that  have  been  ever  said  on  the  future  state  are  con- 
tained in  this  poem.” 

The  best  analysis  of  “In  Memoriam”  is  by  Miss  Chapman  (Macmillan 
and  Co.). 


i85o]  Gladstone’s  memories  of  artiiur  hallam.  299 

him  with  words  of  genuine  admiration  for  his  love  of 
Nature,  for  the  eagerness  with  which  he  welcomed 
all  the  latest  scientific  discoveries,  and  for  his  trust 
in  truth.  Science  indeed  in  his  opinion  was  one  of  the 
main  forces  tending  to  disperse  the  superstition  that 
still  darkens  the  world.  A review  which  he  thought 
one  of  the  ablest  was  that  by  Mr  Gladstone.  From 
this  review  I quote  the  following  to  show  that  in  Glad- 
stone’s opinion  my  father  had  not  over-estimated  Arthur 
Hallam. 

In  1850  Mr  Tennyson  gave  to  the  world  under  the  title  of 
“ In  Memoriam,,,  perhaps  the  richest  oblation  ever  offered  by  the 
affection  of  friendship  at  the  tomb  of  the  departed.  The  memory 
of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  who  died  suddenly  in  1833,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-two,  will  doubtless  live  chiefly  in  connection  with  this 
volume.  But  he  is  well  known  to  have  been  one  who,  if  the 
term  of  his  days  had  been  prolonged,  would  have  needed  no 
aid  from  a friendly  hand,  would  have  built  his  own  enduring 
monument,  and  would  have  bequeathed  to  his  country  a name 
in  all  likelihood  greater  than  that  of  his  very  distinguished 
father.  The  writer  of  this  paper  was,  more  than  half  a century 
ago,  in  a condition  to  say 

“ I marked  him 

As  a far  Alp ; and  loved  to  watch  the  sunrise 
Dawn  on  his  ample  brow1.” 

There  perhaps  was  no  one  among  those  who  were  blessed 
with  his  friendship,  nay,  as  we  see,  not  even  Mr  Tennyson2,  who 
did  not  feel  at  once  bound  closely  to  him  by  commanding 
affection,  and  left  far  behind  by  the  rapid,  full  and  rich  develop- 
ment of  his  ever-searching  mind ; by  his 

“ All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilising  intellect.” 

It  would  be  easy  to  show  what  in  the  varied  forms  of  human 
excellence,  he  might,  had  life  been  granted  him,  have  accom- 
plished; much  more  difficult  to  point  the  finger  and  to  say,  “This 

1 De  Vere’s  Mary  Tudor  iv.  i. 

2 See  “In  Memoriam,”  cix.,  cx.,  cxi.,  cxn.,  cxm. 


3°° 


IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

he  never  could  have  done.”  Enough  remains  from  among  his 
early  efforts,  to  accredit  whatever  mournful  witness  may  now  be 
borne  of  him.  But  what  can  be  a nobler  tribute  than  this,  that 
for  seventeen  years  after  his  death  a poet,  fast  rising  towards 
the  lofty  summits  of  his  art,  found  that  young  fading  image  the 
richest  source  of  his  inspiration,  and  of  thoughts  that  gave  him 
buoyancy  for  a flight  such  as  he  had  not  hitherto  attained1. 

Bishop  Westcott  and  Professor  Henry  Sidgwick  have 
written  me  interesting  letters  which  respectively  give 
the  impressions  the  poem  made  on  Cambridge  men  in 
1850,  and  in  i860,  and  I quote  them  in  extenso . 

The  Bishop  writes : 

When  “ In  Memoriam  ” appeared,  I felt  (as  I feel  if  possible 
more  strongly  now)  that  the  hope  of  man  lies  in  the  historic 
realization  of  the  Gospel.  I rejoiced  in  the  Introduction, 
which  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  mature  summing  up  after  an 
interval  of  the  many  strains  of  thought  in  the  “Elegies.”  Now 
the  stress  of  controversy  is  over,  I think  so  still.  As  I look 
at  my  original  copy  of  “In  Memoriam,”  I recognise  that  what 
impressed  me  most  was  your  father’s  splendid  faith  (in  the  face 
of  the  frankest  acknowledgment  of  every  difficulty)  in  the  growing 
purpose  of  the  sum  of  life,  and  in  the  noble  destiny  of  the  indi- 
vidual man  as  he  offers  himself  for  the  fulfilment  of  his  little  part 
(liv.,  lxxxi.,  lxxxii.  and  the  closing  stanzas).  This  faith  , has 
now  largely  entered  into  our  common  life,  and  it  seems  to  me 
to  express  a lesson  of  the  Gospel  which  the  circumstances  of 
all  time  encourage  us  to  master. 

Professor  Sidgwick  writes: 

After  thinking  over  the  matter,  it  has  seemed  to  me  better 
to  write  to  you  a somewhat  different  kind  of  letter  from  that 
which  I originally  designed  : a letter  not  primarily  intended  for 
publication,  though  I wish  you  to  feel  at  liberty  to  print  any 
part  of  it  which  you  may  find  suitable,  but  primarily  intended 
to  serve  rather  as  a “document”  on  which  you  may  base  any 
statements  you  may  wish  to  make  as  to  the  impression  produced 
by  “In  Memoriam.”  I have  decided  to  adopt  this  course: 

1 Gladstone’s  Gleanings  of  Past  Years , Vol.  n.,  pp.  136-37. 


3QI 


1850 J PROF.  SIDGWICK  ON  “ IN  MEMORIAM.” 

because  I want  to  write  with  rather  more  frank  egotism  than  I 
should  otherwise  like  to  show.  I want  to  do  this,  because  in 
describing  the  impression  made  on  me  by  the  poem,  I ought 
to  make  clear  the  point  of  view  from  which  I approached  it, 
and  the  attitude  of  thought  which  I retained  under  its  influence. 
In  what  follows  I shall  be  describing  chiefly  my  own  experiences  : 
but  I shall  allow  myself  sometimes  to  say  “ we  ” rather  than  “ I,” 
meaning  by  “ we  ” my  generation,  as  known  to  me,  through 
converse  with  intimate  friends. 

To  begin,  then:  our  views  on  religious  matters  were  not, 
at  any  rate  after  a year  or  two  of  the  discussion  started  in  i860 
by  Essays  and  Reviews , really  in  harmony  with  those  which  we 
found  suggested  by  “ In  Memoriam.”  They  were  more  sceptical 
and  less  Christian,  in  any  strict  sense  of  the  word  : certainly  this 
was  the  case  with  myself : I remember  feeling  that  Clough 
represented  my  individual  habits  of  thought  and  sentiment  more 
than  your  father,  although  as  a poet  he  moved  me  less.  And 
this  more  sceptical  attitude  has  remained  mine  through  life ; 
while  at  the  same  time  I feel  that  the  beliefs  in  God  and  in 
immortality  are  vital  to  human  well-being. 

Hence  the  most  important  influence  of  “ In  Memoriam  ” on 
my  thought,  apart  from  its  poetic  charm  as  an  expression  of 
personal  emotion,  opened  in  a region,  if  I may  so  say,  deeper 
down  than  the  difference  between  Theism  and  Christianity : it 
lay  in  the  unparalleled  combination  of  intensity  of  feeling  with 
comprehensiveness  of  view  and  balance  of  judgment,  shown  in 
presenting  the  deepest  needs  and  perplexities  of  humanity.  And 
this  influence,  I find,  has  increased  rather  than  diminished  as 
years  have  gone  on,  and  as  the  great  issues  between  Agnostic 
Science  and  Faith  have  become  continually  more  prominent. 
In  the  sixties  I should  say  that  these  deeper  issues  were  some- 
what obscured  by  the  discussions  on  Christian  dogma,  and 
Inspiration  of  Scripture,  etc.  You  may  remember  Browning’s 
reference  to  this  period  — 

“ The  Essays  and  Reviews  debate 
Begins  to  tell  on  the  public  mind 
And  Colenso’s  words  have  weight.” 

During  these  years  we  were  absorbed  in  struggling  for  free- 
dom of  thought  in  the  trammels  of  a historical  religion : and 
perhaps  what  we  sympathize  with  most  in  “ In  Memoriam  ” at 


302  “IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

this  time,  apart  from  the  personal  feeling,  was  the  defence  of 
“ honest  doubt,”  the  reconciliation  of  knowledge  and  faith  in  the 
introductory  poem,  and  the  hopeful  trumpet-ring  of  the  lines  on 
the  New  Year  — 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace, 

and  generally  the  forward  movement  of  the  thought. 

Well,  the  years  pass,  the  struggle  with  what  Carlyle  used  to 
call  “ Hebrew  old  clothes  ” is  over,  Freedom  is  won,  and  what 
does  Freedom  bring  us  to  ? It  brings  us  face  to  face  with 
atheistic  science : the  faith  in  God  and  Immortality,  which  we 
had  been  struggling  to  clear  from  superstition,  suddenly  seems 
to  be  in  the  air : and  in  seeking  for  a firm  basis  for  this  faith 
we  find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  “fight  with  death”  which 
“ In  Memoriam  ” so  powerfully  presents. 

What  “In  Memoriam”  did  for  us,  for  me  at  least,  in  this 
struggle  was  to  impress  on  us  the  ineffaceable  and  ineradicable 
conviction  that  humanity  will  not  and  cannot  acquiesce  in  a 
godless  world  : the  “ man  in  men  ” will  not  do  this,  whatever 
individual  men  may  do,  whatever  they  may  temporarily  feel 
themselves  driven  to  do,  by  following  methods  which  they 
cannot  abandon  to  the  conclusions  to  which  these  methods  at 
present  seem  to  lead. 

The  force  with  which  it  impressed  this  conviction  was  not 
due  to  the  mere  intensity  of  its  expression  of  the  feelings  which 
Atheism  outrages  and  Agnosticism  ignores  : but  rather  to  its 
expression  of  them  along  with  a reverent  docility  to  the  lessons 
of  science  which  also  belongs  to  the  essence  of  the  thought  of 
our  age. 

I remember  being  struck  with  a note  in  Nature , at  the 
time  of  your  father’s  death,  which  dwelt  on  this  last-mentioned 
aspect  of  his  work,  and  regarded  him  as  preeminently  the  Poet 
of  Science.  I have  always  felt  this  characteristic  important  in 
estimating  his  effect  on  his  generation.  Wordsworth’s  attitude 
towards  Nature  was  one  that,  so  to  say,  left  Science  unregarded  : 
the  Nature  for  which  Wordsworth  stirred  our  feelings  was  Nature 
as  known  by  simple  observation  and  interpreted  by  religious 
and  sympathetic  intuition.  But  for  your  father  the  physical 
world  is  always  the  world  as  known  to  us  through  physical 
science : the  scientific  view  of  it  dominates  his  thoughts  about 


1850]  “NOW  ARE  WE  THE  SONS  OF  GOD.”  3°3 

it ; and  his  general  acceptance  of  this  view  is  real  and  sincere, 
even  when  he  utters  the  intensest  feeling  of  its  inadequacy  to 
satisfy  our  deepest  needs.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  had  he  met 
the  atheistic  tendencies  of  modern  Science  with  more  confident 
defiance,  more  confident  assertion  of  an  Intuitive  Faculty  of 
theological  knowledge,  overriding  the  results  laboriously  reached 
by  empirical  science,  I think  his  antagonism  to  these  tendencies 
would  have  been  far  less  impressive. 

I always  feel  this  strongly  in  reading  the  memorable  lines  : 

“If  e’  er,  when  faith  had  fallen  asleep  ” down  to  “ I have  felt1.” 

At  this  point,  if  the  stanzas  had  stopped  here,  we  should 
have  shaken  our  heads  and  said,  “Feeling  must  not  usurp  the 
function  of  Reason.  Feeling  is  not  knowing.  It  is  the  duty 
of  a rational  being  to  follow  truth  wherever  it  leads.” 

But  the  poet’s  instinct  knows  this ; he  knows  that  this 
usurpation  by  Feeling  of  the  function  of  Reason  is  too  bold 
and  confident ; accordingly  in  the  next  stanza  he  gives  the  turn 
to  humility  in  the  protest  of  Feeling  which  is  required  (I  think) 
to  win  the  assent  of  the  “ man  in  men  ” at  this  stage  of  human 
thought. 

These  lines  I can  never  read  without  tears.  I feel  in  them 
the  indestructible  and  inalienable  minimum  of  faith  which 
humanity  cannot  give  up  because  it  is  necessary  for  life;  and 
which  I know  that  I,  at  least  so  far  as  the  man  in  me  is  deeper 
than  the  methodical  thinker,  cannot  give  up. 

If  the  possibility  of  a “ godless  world  ” is  excluded,  the  faith 
thus  restored  is,  for  the  poet,  unquestionably  a form  of  Christian 
faith : there  seems  to  him  then  no  reason  for  doubting  that  the 

Sinless  years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue, 

and  the  marvel  of  the  life  continued  after  the  bodily  death, 
were  a manifestation  of  the  “ immortal  love  ” which  by  faith 
we  embrace  as  the  essence  of  the  Divine  nature.  “ If  the  dead 
rise  not,  Christ  is  not  risen  ” : but  if  we  may  believe  that 
they  rise,  then  it  seems  to  him,  we  may  and  must  believe  the 
main  drift  of  the  Gospel  story ; though  we  may  transiently 


1 See  pp.  314-15* 


304  “IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

wonder  why  the  risen  Lord  told  his  disciples  only  of  life,  and 
nothing  of  “what  it  is  to  die1.” 

From  this  point  of  view  the  note  of  Christian  faith  struck 
in  the  introductory  stanzas  is  in  harmony  with  all  that  follows. 
And  yet  I have  always  felt  that  in  a certain  sense  the  effect  of 
the  introduction  does  not  quite  represent  the  effect  of  the  poem. 
Faith,  in  the  introduction,  is  too  completely  triumphant.  I think 
this  is  inevitable,  because  so  far  as  the  thought-debate  presented 
by  the  poem  is  summed  up,  it  must  be  summed  up  on  the  side 
of  Faith.  Faith  must  give  the  last  word  : but  the  last  word 
is  not  the  whole  utterance  of  the  truth : the  whole  truth  is  that 
assurance  and  doubt  must  alternate  in  the  moral  world  in  which 
we  at  present  live,  somewhat  as  night  and  day  alternate  in  the 
physical  world.  The  revealing  visions  come  and  go  ; when  they 
come  we  feel  that  we  knozv:  but  in  the  intervals  we  must  pass 
through  states  in  which  all  is  dark,  and  in  which  we  can  only 
struggle  to  hold  the  conviction  that 

Power  is  with  us  in  the  night 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

“ It  must  be  remembered,”  writes  my  father,  “ that 
this  is  a poem,  not  an  actual  biography.  It  is  founded 
on  our  friendship,  on  the  engagement  of  Arthur  Hallam 
to  my  sister,  on  his  sudden  death  at  Vienna,  just 
before  the  time  fixed  for  their  marriage,  and  on  his 
burial  at  Clevedon  Church.  The  poem  concludes  with 
the  marriage  of  my  youngest  sister  Cecilia.  It  was 
meant  to  be  a kind  of  Divina  Commcdia,  ending  with 
happiness.  The  sections  were  written  at  many  different 
places,  and  as  the  phases  of  our  intercourse  came  to  my 
memory  and  suggested  them.  I did  not  write  them  with 
any  view  of  weaving  them  into  a whole,  or  for  publica- 
tion, until  I found  that  I had  written  so  many.  The 
different  moods  of  sorrow  as  in  a drama  are  dramatically 
given,  and  my  conviction  that  fear,  doubts,  and  suffering 

1 See  Browning’s  “ Epistle  containing  the  Strange  Medical  Experience 
of  Karshish.” 


DIVISIONS  OF  THE  POEM. 


305 


1850] 

will  find  answer  and  relief  only  through  Faith  in  a 
God  of  Love.  ‘ I ’ is  not  always  the  author  speaking 
of  himself,  but  the  voice  of  the  human  race  speaking 
thro’  him.  After  the  Death  of  A.  H.  H.,  the  divisions 
of  the  poem  are  made  by  First  Xmas  Eve  (Section 
xxviil),  Second  Xmas  (lxxviii.1),  Third  Xmas  Eve 
(civ.  and  cv.  etc.).  I myself  did  not  see  Clevedon  till 
years  after  the  burial  of  A.  H.  H.  Jan.  3rd,  1834,  and 
then  in  later  editions  of  ‘ In  Memoriam  ’ I altered  the 
word  ‘chancel,’  which  was  the  word  used  by  Mr  Hallam 
in  his  Memoir,  to  ‘ dark  church.’  As  to  the  localities  in 
which  the  poems  were  written,  some  were  written  in 
Lincolnshire,  some  in  London,  Essex,  Gloucestershire, 
Wales,  anywhere  where  I happened  to  be2.” 

“ And  as  for  the  metre  of  ‘ In  Memoriam  ’ I had  no 
notion  till  1880  that  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury  had 

1 No.  lxxii.  refers  to  the  first  anniversary  of  the  death  Sept.  15th,  1833. 
No.  c.  to  the  farewell  of  the  family  to  Somersby  in  1837. 

2 In  a letter  to  Mr  Malan  written  at  the  same  time  as  the  above  note, 
in  reply  to  enquiries  as  to  whether,  in  “ In  Memoriam,”  he  has  copied 
Statius,  or  Ovid’s  “ Epicedion,”  or  the  “ Sorrow  of  Arcadius  Etruscus,”  or 
“ Spring  Stanzas  to  Domitian,”  etc.  etc.  my  father  writes  : 

Nov.  14  th,  1883. 

Dear  Sir, 

I am  sorry  that  your  letter  has  gone  so  long  unanswered,  but  my 
eyes  are  so  bad,  and  I have  such  a large  correspondence  that  I find  it 
impossible  to  answer  everybody.  It  is  news  to  me  that  the  remains  of 
A.  H.  H.  were  landed  at  Dover.  I had  always  believed  that  the  ship  which 
brought  them  put  in  at  Bristol.  As  to  his  being  buried  in  the  chancel, 
Mr  Hallam  in  a printed  memoir  of  his  son,  states  that  it  was  so.  * * * * I 
can  assure  you  I am  innocent  as  far  as  I am  aware  of  knowing  one  line  of 
Statius;  and  of  Ovid’s  “ Epicedion”  I never  heard.  I have  searched  for  it 
in  vain  in  a little  three  volume  edition  of  Ovid  which  I have  here,  but  that 
does  not  contain  this  poem ; nor  have  I ever  heard  of  the  “ Sorrow  of 
Arcadius  Etruscus,”  nor  of  the  “ Spring  Stanzas  to  Domitian.”  The  memoir 
of  his  son  by  Mr  Hallam,  to  which  I allude,  was  printed  merely  for  private 
circulation : and  whether  he  repeated  the  statement  of  the  chancel  burial  in 
the  published  Memoir  I do  not  know. 

Yours  very  truly, 

A.  Tennyson. 


T.  I. 


20 


3°6 


IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

written  his  occasional  verses  in  the  same  metre.  I 
believed  myself  the  originator  of  the  metre,  until  after 
‘ In  Memoriam  ’ came  out,  when  some  one  told  me  that 
Ben  Jonson  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney  had  used  it.  The 
following  poems  were  omitted  from  ‘In  Memoriam’ 
when  I published,  because  I thought  them  redundant1.” 

The  Grave  (originally  No.  lvii.).  {Unpublished) 

I keep  no  more  a lone  distress, 

The  crowd  have  come  to  see  thy  grave, 

Small  thanks  or  credit  shall  I have, 

But  these  shall  see  it  none  the  less. 

The  happy  maiden’s  tears  are  free 

And  she  will  weep  and  give  them  way; 

Yet  one  unschool’d  in  want  will  say 
“ The  dead  are  dead  and  let  them  be.” 

Another  whispers  sick  with  loss: 

“ O let  the  simple  slab  remain ! 

The  ‘Mercy  Jesu’  in  the  rain! 

The  ‘Miserere’  in  the  moss!” 

“ I love  the  daisy  weeping  dew, 

I hate  the  trim-set  plots  of  art!” 

My  friend,  thou  speakest  from  the  heart, 

But  look,  for  these  are  nature  too. 


To  A.  H.  H . (originally  No.  cvin.).  ( Unpublished .) 

Young  is  the  grief  I entertain, 

And  ever  new  the  tale  she  tells, 

And  ever  young  the  face  that  dwells 
With  reason  cloister’d  in  the  brain : 


luO  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me”  was  added  in  1851. 


1850]  POEMS  OMITTED  FROM  PUBLISHED  “ IN  MEMORIAM.”  307 

Yet  grief  deserves  a nobler  name: 

She  spurs  an  imitative  will ; 

’Tis  shame  to  fail  so  far,  and  still 
My  failing  shall  be  less  my  shame: 

Considering  what  mine  eyes  have  seen, 

And  all  the  sweetness  which  thou  wast 
In  thy  beginnings  in  the  past, 

And  all  the  strength  thou  wouldst  have  been: 

A master  mind  with  master  minds, 

An  orb  repulsive  of  all  hate, 

A will  concentric  with  all  fate, 

A life  four-square  to  all  the  winds. 


The  Victor  Hours  (originally  No.  cxxvn.). 

( Unpublished. ) 

Are  those  the  far-famed  Victor  Hours 
That  ride  to  death  the  griefs  of  men  ? 

I fear  not;  if  I fear’d  them,  then 
Is  this  blind  flight  the  winged  Powers. 

Behold,  ye  cannot  bring  but  good, 

And  see,  ye  dare  not  touch  the  truth, 
Nor  Sorrow  beauteous  in  her  youth, 

Nor  Love  that  holds  a constant  mood. 

Ye  must  be  wiser  than  your  looks, 

Or  wise  yourselves,  or  wisdom-led, 

Else  this  wild  whisper  round  my  head 
Were  idler  than  a flight  of  rooks. 

Go  forward ! crumble  down  a throne, 
Dissolve  a world,  condense  a star, 
Unsocket  all  the  joints  of  war, 

And  fuse  the  peoples  into  one. 


308  “in  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

That  my  father  was  a student  of  the  Bible,  those 
who  have  read  “In  Memoriam  ” know.  He  also  eagerly 
read  all  notable  works  within  his  reach  relating  to  the 

o 

Bible,  and  traced  with  deep  interest  such  fundamental 
truths  as  underlie  the  great  religions  of  the  world.  He 
hoped  that  the  Bible 1 would  be  more  and  more  studied 
by  all  ranks  of  people,  and  expounded  simply  by  their 
teachers  ; for  he  maintained  that  the  religion  of  a people 
could  never  be  founded  on  mere  moral  philosophy: 
and  that  it  could  only  come  home  to  them  in  the 
simple,  noble  thoughts  and  facts  of  a Scripture  like 
ours 2. 

Soon  after  his  marriage  he  took  to  reading  different 
systems  of  philosophy  3,  yet  none  particularly  influenced 
him.  The  result  I think  is  shown  in  a more  ordered 
arrangement  of  religious,  metaphysical  and  scientific 
thought  throughout  the  “ Idylls  ” and  his  later  works. 
“ In  Poems  like  ‘ De  Profundis  ’ and  the  ‘Ancient  Sage,’  ” 
Jowett  said,  “he  often  brings  up  metaphysical  truths 
from  the  deepest  depths.”  But  as  a rule  he  knew  that 
poetry  must  touch  on  metaphysical  topics  rather  by 
allusion  than  systematically.  In  the  following  pages 
I shall  not  give  any  of  his  subtler  arguments ; but  only 
attempt  to  illustrate  from  “ In  Memoriam,”  with  some  of 
the  other  poems,  and  from  his  conversation,  the  general 
everyday  attitude  of  his  mind  toward  the  highest  problems 
that  confront  us.  In  dealing  with  these  none  was  readier 
in  the  discovery  of  fallacies,  none  was  more  resolute  in 
proclaiming  what  seemed  to  him  realities. 

His  creed,  he  always  said,  he  would  not  formulate, 
for  people  would  not  understand  him  if  he  did ; but  he 

1 He  also  said : “ The  Bible  ought  to  be  read,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  grand  English  in  which  it  is  written,  an  education  in  itself.” 

2 See  Nos.  xxxvi.,  lii.,  lxxxiv.  last  stanza  but  one. 

3 Spinoza,  Berkeley,  Kant,  Schlegel,  Fichte,  Hegel,  Ferrier,  were  among 
the  books  added  to  his  library. 


1850]  THE  POEMS  THE  EXPRESSION  OF  HIS  FAITH.  309 

considered  that  his  poems  expressed  the  principles  at  the 
foundation  of  his  faith. 

He  thought,  with  Arthur  Hallam,  “that  the  essential 
feelings  of  religion  subsist  in  the  utmost  diversity  of 
forms,”  that  “ different  language  does  not  always  imply 
different  opinions,  nor  different  opinions  any  difference 
in  real  faith.”  “ It  is  impossible,”  he  said,  “ to  imagine 
that  the  Almighty  will  ask  you,  when  you  come  before 
Him  in  the  next  life  what  your  particular  form  of  creed 
was:  but  the  question  will  rather  be,  ‘Have  you  been 
true  to  yourself,  and  given  in  My  Name  a cup  of  cold 
water  to  one  of  these  little  ones  ? ’ ” 

“ This  is  a terrible  age  of  unfaith,”  he  would  say. 
“ I hate  utter  unfaith,  I cannot  endure  that  men  should 
sacrifice  everything  at  the  cold  altar  of  what  with  their 
imperfect  knowledge  they  choose  to  call  truth  and  reason. 
One  can  easily  lose  all  belief,  through  giving  up  the 
continual  thought  and  care  for  spiritual  things.” 

And  again,  “ In  this  vale  of  Time  the  hills  of  Time 
often  shut  out  the  mountains  of  Eternity.” 

My  father’s  friend,  the  Bishop  of  Ripon,  writes: 

With  those  who  are  impatient  of  all  spiritual  truth  he  had 
no  sympathy  whatever ; but  he  had  a sympathy  with  those  who 
were  impatient  of  the  formal  statement  of  truth,  only  because 
he  felt  that  all  formal  statements  of  truth  must  of  necessity  fall 
below  the  greatness  and  the  grandeur  of  the  truth  itself.  There 
is  a reverent  impatience  of  forms,  and  there  is  an  irreverent 
impatience  of  them.  An  irreverent  impatience  of  formal  dogma 
means  impatience  of  all  spiritual  truth ; but  a reverent  impa- 
tience of  formal  dogma  may  be  but  the  expression  of  the  feel- 
ing that  the  truth  must  be  larger,  purer,  nobler  than  any  mere 
human  expression  or  definition  of  it.  With  this  latter  attitude 
of  mind  he  had  sympathy,  and  he  expressed  that  sympathy  in 
song ; he  could  understand  those  who  seemed 

To  have  reach’d  a purer  air, 

Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form. 


3IQ 


IN  MEMORIAM.” 


[l850 


He  urged  men  to  “ cling  to  faith,  beyond  the  forms  of 
faith1.”  But  while  he  did  this  he  also  recognised  clearly  the 
importance  and  the  value  of  definitions  of  truth,  and  his  counsel 
to  the  very  man  who  prided  himself  upon  his  emancipation  from 
forms  was : 


Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays, 

Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views; 

Nor  thou  with  shadow’d  hint  confuse 
A life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro’  form  is  pure  as  thine, 

Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good : 

Oh,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 
To  which  she  links  a truth  divine2! 

He  warned  the  man  proud  of  his  emancipation  from  formal 
faith,  that  in  a world  of  so  many  confusions  he  might  meet  with 
ruin,  “ Ev’n  for  want  of  such  a type.”  And  we  are  not  sur- 
prised, knowing  how  insidious  are  the  evil  influences  which 
gather  round  us : 

Hold  thou  the  good ; define  it  well, 

For  fear  Divine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  lords  of  Hell. 

And  thus  he  had  sympathy  with  those  who  feel  that  faith  is 
larger  and  nobler  than  form,  and  at  the  same  time  he  had  ten- 
derness and  appreciation  for  those  who  find  their  faith  helped 
by  form.  To  him,  as  to  so  many,  truth  is  so  infinitely  great 
that  all  we  can  do  with  our  poor  human  utterances  is  to  try 
and  clothe  it  in  such  language  as  will  make  it  clear  to  ourselves, 

1 Cf.  Vol.  n.  chap,  xxiii.  ist  paragraph. 

2 Jowett  wrote  about  my  father’s  “defence  of  honest  doubt”  as  compared 
with  this  passage : “ Can  we  find  any  reconciliation  of  these  varying  utter- 
ances of  the  same  mind?  I think  that  we  may.  For  we  may  argue  that 
truth  kept  back  is  the  greatest  source  of  doubt  and  suspicion : that  faith 
cannot  survive  without  enquiry,  and  that  the  doubt  which  is  raised  may  be 
the  step  upward  to  a higher  faith.  And  so  we  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that 
truth  is  good,  and  to  be  received  thankfully  and  fearlessly  by  all  who  are 
capable  of  receiving  it.  But  on  the  other  hand  it  is  not  always  to  be 
imparted  in  its  entirety  to  those  who  cannot  understand  it,  and  whose  minds 
would  be  puzzled  and  overwhelmed  by  it.” 


“ FAITH  BEYOND  THE  FORMS  OF  FAITH. 


1850] 


5) 


311 


and  clear  to  those  to  whom  God  sends  us  with  a message,  but 
meanwhile,  above  us  and  our  thoughts  — above  our  broken 
lights  — God  in  His  mercy,  God  in  His  love,  God  in  His 
infinite  nature  is  greater  than  all. 


Assuredly  Religion  was  no  nebulous  abstraction  for 
him.  He  consistently  emphasized  his  own  belief  in  what 
he  called  the  Eternal  Truths;  in  an  Omnipotent,  Omni- 
present and  All-loving  God,  Who  has  revealed  Himself 
through  the  human  attribute  of  the  highest  self-sacrificing 
love ; in  the  freedom  of  the  human  will ; and  in  the 
immortality  of  the  soul.  But  he  asserted  that  “ Nothing 
worthy  proving  can  be  proven,”  and  that  even  as  to  the 
great  laws  which  are  the  basis  of  Science,  “ W e have  but 
faith,  we  cannot  know.”  He  dreaded  the  dogmatism  of 
sects  and  rash  definitions  of  God.  “ I dare  hardly  name 
His  Name”  he  would  say,  and  accordingly  he  named 
Him  in  “The  Ancient  Sage”  the  “Nameless.”  “But 
take  away  belief  in  the  self-conscious  personality  of  God,” 
he  said,  “ and  you  take  away  the  backbone  of  the  world.” 
“ On  God  and  God-like  men  we  build  our  trust.”  A 
week  before  his  death  I was  sitting  by  him,  and  he  talked 
long  of  the  Personality  and  of  the  Love  of  God,  “ That 
God,  Whose  eyes  consider  the  poor,”  “ Who  catereth  even 
for  the  sparrow.”  “ I should,”  he  said,  “ infinitely  rather 
feel  myself  the  most  miserable  wretch  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  with  a God  above,  than  the  highest  type  of  man 
standing  alone.”  He  would  allow  that  God  is  unknow- 
able in  “ his  whole  world-self,  and  all-in-all,”  and  that 
therefore  there  was  some  force  in  the  objection  made  by 
some  people  to  the  word  “ Personality,”  as  being  “ anthro- 
pomorphic,” and  that  perhaps  “ Self-consciousness  ” or 
“ Mind  ” might  be  clearer  to  them : but  at  the  same 
time  he  insisted  that,  although  “ man  is  like  a thing  of 
nought  ” in  “ the  boundless  plan,”  our  highest  view  of 
God  must  be  more  or  less  anthropomorphic : and  that 


312 


“ IN  MEMORIAM.” 


[l850 

“ Personality,”  as  far  as  our  intelligence  goes,  is  the 
widest  definition  and  includes  “ Mind,”  “ Self-conscious- 
ness1,” “ Will,”  “ Love  ” and  other  attributes  of  the  Real,, 
the  Supreme,  “ the  High  and  Lofty  One  that  inhabiteth 
Eternity  Whose  name  is  Holy.” 

Jowett  asked  him  to  write  an  anthem  about  God  for 
Balliol  Chapel  and  he  wrote  “ The  Human  Cry”: 

We  feel  we  are  nothing  — for  all  is  Thou  and  in  Thee ; 

We  feel  we  are  something  — that  also  has  come  from 
Thee  ; 

We  know  we  are  nothing  — but  Thou  wilt  help  us  to  be. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name — Hallelujah! 

When  his  last  book  was  in  proof,  we  spoke  together 
of  the  ultimate  expression  of  his  own  calm  faith  at  the 
end  of  his  life : 

That  Love  which  is  and  was 
My  Father  and  my  Brother  and  my  God2. 

Everywhere  throughout  the  Universe  he  saw  the 
glory  and  greatness  of  God,  and  the  science  of  Nature 
was  particularly  dear  to  him.  Every  new  fact  which 
came  within  his  range  was  carefully  weighed.  As  he 
exulted  in  the  wilder  aspects  of  Nature  (see  for  instance 
sect,  xv.)  and  revelled  in  the  thunderstorm ; so  he  felt 
a joy  in  her  orderliness ; he  felt  a rest  in  her  steadfast- 
ness, patient  progress  and  hopefulness;  the  same  seasons 
ever  returned ; the  same  stars  wheeled  in  their  courses ; 


X“A.  T.  thinks  it  ridiculous  to  believe  in  a God  and  deny  his  con- 
sciousness, and  was  amused  at  someone  who  said  of  him  that  he  had 
versified  Hegelianism.”  Jowett,  MS  Note. 

2 To  enquiries  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  words  “Immortal  Love”  in  the 
Introduction  to  “ In  Memoriam,”  he  explained  that  he  had  used  “ Love”  in 
the  same  sense  as  St  John  (i  John,  chap.  iv.).  “The  Word”  also  in 
No.  xxxvi.  was  “The  Word”  as  used  by  St  John,  the  Revelation  of  the 
Eternal  Thought  of  the  Universe. 


1850]  HIS  JOY  IN  NATURE.  3 1 3 

the  flowers1  and  trees  blossomed  and  the  birds  sang 
yearly  in  their  appointed  months ; and  he  had  a trium- 
phant appreciation  of  her  ever-new  revelations  of  beauty. 
One  of  the  “ In  Memoriam  ” poems,  written  at  Bar- 
mouth 2,  gives  preeminently  his  sense  of  the  joyous  peace 
in  Nature,  and  he  would  quote  it  in  this  context  along 
with  his  Spring  and  Bird  songs : 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro’  all  the  dewy-tassell’d  wood, 

And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 
In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odour  streaming  far, 

To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 
A hundred  spirits  whisper  “Peace3.” 

But  he  was  occasionally  much  troubled  with  the  in- 
tellectual problem  of  the  apparent  profusion  and  waste 
of  life  and  by  the  vast  amount  of  sin  and  suffering 
throughout  the  world,  for  these  seemed  to  militate  against 
the  idea  of  the  Omnipotent  and  All-loving  Father. 

No  doubt  in  such  moments  he  might  possibly  have 

1 Picking  up  a daisy  as  we  walked,  and  looking  close  to  its  crimson-tipt 
leaves  he  said : “ Does  not  this  look  like  a thinking  Artificer,  one  who  wishes 
to  ornament  ? ” MS  Note,  E.  F.  G. 

2 He  notes  this  in  his  own  hand. 

8 See  also  Nos.  lxxxviii.,  lxxxix.,  xci.,  cxv.,  cxvi.,  cxxi.,  cxxii. 


314  “IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

been  heard  to  say  what  I myself  have  heard  him  say : 
“An  Omnipotent  Creator  Who  could  make  such  a pain- 
ful world  is  to  me  sometimes  as  hard  to  believe  in  as  to 
believe  in  blind  matter  behind  everything.  The  lavish 
profusion  too  in  the  natural  world  appals  me,  from  the 
growths  of  the  tropical  forest  to  the  capacity  of  man  to 
multiply,  the  torrent  of  babies.” 

“ I can  almost  understand  some  of  the  Gnostic  here- 
sies, which  only  after  all  put  the  difficulty  one  step  further 
back”: 

0 me ! for  why  is  all  around  us  here 

As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the  world, 

But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he  would, 

Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  beyond 

And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful  ? 1 

After  one  of  these  moods  in  the  summer  of  1892 
he  exclaimed:  “Yet  God  is  love,  transcendent,  all- 
pervading!  We  do  not  get  this  faith  from  Nature  or 
the  world.  If  we  look  at  Nature  alone,  full  of  perfection 
and  imperfection,  she  tells  us  that  God  is  disease,  murder 
and  rapine.  We  get  this  faith  from  ourselves,  from 
what  is  highest  within  us,  which  recognizes  that  there 
is  not  one  fruitless  pang,  just  as  there  is  not  one  lost 
good.” 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless ; 

Our  dearest  faith;  our  ghastliest  doubt; 

He,  They,  One,  All ; within,  without ; 

The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess; 

1 found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 

Or  eagle’s  wing,  or  insect’s  eye ; 

Nor  thro’  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun : 

1 He  would  sometimes  put  forward  the  old  theory  that  “The  world  is 
part  of  an  infinite  plan,  incomplete  because  it  is  a part.  We  cannot  therefore 
read  the  riddle.” 


1850] 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  PAIN. 


315 


If  e’er  when  faith  had  fall’n  asleep, 

I heard  a voice  “ believe  no  more  ” 

And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 
That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep; 

A warmth  within  the  heart  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason’s  colder  part, 

And  like  a man  in  wrath  the  heart 
Stood  up  and  answer’d  “ I have  felt.” 

No,  like  a child  in  doubt  and  fear; 

But  that  blind  clamour  made  me  wise; 

Then  was  I as  a child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 

And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 
That  reach  thro’  nature,  moulding  men. 

He  had  been  reading  the  eighth  chapter  of  Romans, 
and  said  that  he  thought  that  St  Paul  fully  recognized 
in  the  sorrows  of  Nature  and  in  the  miseries  of  the  world 
a stumbling-block  to  the  divine  idea  of  God,  but  that 
they  are  the  preludes  necessary  as  things  are  to  the 
higher  good1.  “For  myself,”  he  said,  “the  world  is 
the  shadow  of  God,”  and  then  he  referred  to  Jowett’s 
commentary  on  this  chapter: 

As  we  turn  from  ourselves  to  the  world  around  us,  the 
prospect  on  which  we  cast  our  eyes  seems  to  reflect  the  tone  and 
colour  of  our  own  minds,  and  to  share  our  joy  and  sorrow.  To 
the  religious  mind  it  seems  also  to  reflect  our  sins.  We  cannot 
indeed  speak  of  the  misery  of  the  brute  creation,  of  whose 
constitution  we  know  so  little  ; nor  do  we  pretend  to  discover 
in  the  loveliest  spots  of  earth  indications  of  a fallen  world.  But 
when  we  look  at  the  vices  and  diseases  of  mankind,  at  the  life  of 
labour  in  which  animals  are  our  partners,  at  the  aspect  in  modern 


1 Cf.  St  John  xvi.  21,  22. 


31 6 “IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

times  of  our  large  towns,  as  in  ancient,  of  a world  given  to 
idolatry,  we  see  enough  to  explain  the  Apostle’s  meaning,  and  to 
understand  how  he  could  say  that  “ The  whole  creation  groaneth 
and  travaileth  till  now.”  He  is  not  speaking,  of  course,  of  the 
conscious  feeling  of  degradation,  but  of  the  world,  as  it  seemed 
to  the  eye  of  faith ; not  as  it  appeared  to  itself,  but  as  we  may 
imagine  it  to  appear  in  the  sight  of  God  when  compared  with 
the  divine  idea....  But  the  Spirit  helps  us,  and  God  has  chosen 
us  according  to  his  purpose,  and  in  all  things  God  is  working 
with  us  for  good  \ 

My  father  invariably  believed  that  humility1 2  is  the 
only  true  attitude  of  the  human  soul,  and  therefore 
spoke  with  the  greatest  reserve  of  what  he  called  “ these 
unfathomable  mysteries,”  as  befitting  one  who  did  not 
dogmatise,  but  who  knew  that  the  Finite  can  by  no 
means  grasp  the  Infinite:  “ Dark  is  the  world  to  thee3 *, 
thyself  is  the  reason  why  ” ; and  yet,  he  had  a profound 
trust  that  when  all  is  seen  face  to  face,  all  will  be  seen 
as  the  best.  “ Fear  not  thou  the  hidden  purpose  of  that 
Power  which  alone  is  great.”  “ Who  knows  whether 
Revelation  be  not  itself  a veil  to  hide  the  Glory  of  that 
Love  which  we  could  not  look  upon,  without  marring  the 
sight  and  our  onward  progress  ? ” 

This  faith  was  to  him  the  breath  of  life,  and  never, 
I feel,  really  failed  him,  or  life  itself  would  have  failed. 

Free-will  and  its  relation  to  the  meaning  of  human 
life  and  to  circumstance  was  latterly  one  of  his  most 
common  subjects  of  conversation.  Free-will  was  un- 
doubtedly, he  said,  the  “ main  miracle,  apparently  an  act 
of  self-limitation  by  the  Infinite,  and  yet  a revelation  by 

1 J owett,  Epistle  to  the  Romans. 

2 “ Almost  the  finest  summing  up  of  Religion  is  1 to  do  justice,  to  love 
mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly  with  God.11’  A.  T. 

He  often  quoted  Newton’s  saying  that  we  are  like  children  picking  up 
pebbles  on  the  shore  of  the  Infinite  Ocean. 

3 The  real  mysteries  to  him  were  Time,  life,  and  “ finite-infinite  ” space : 

and  so  he  talks  of  the  soul  “ being  born  and  banish’d  into  mystery.” 


LAW  AND  INDIVIDUAL  RESPONSIBILITY. 


317 


Himself  of  Himself.”  “ Take  away  the  sense  of  indi- 
vidual responsibility  and  men  sink  into  pessimism  and 
madness.”  He  wrote  at  the  end  of  the  poem  “ Despair  ”: 
“ In  my  boyhood  I came  across  the  Calvinist  Creed, 
and  assuredly  however  unfathomable  the  mystery,  if  one 
cannot  believe  in  the  freedom  of  the  human  will  as  of 
the  Divine,  life  is  hardly  worth  having.”  The  lines  that 
he  oftenest  repeated  about  Free-will  were, 

This  main  miracle  that  thou  art  thou 
With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on  the  world. 

Then  he  would  enlarge  upon  man’s  consequent  moral 
obligations,  upon  the  Law  which  claims  a free  obedience, 
and  upon  the  pursuit  of  moral  perfection  (in  imitation  of 
the  Divine)  to  which  man  is  called. 

ov  yap  eyarye  ov Sep  ovtco  [iol  iva. pyes  ov,  rovro , 

to  elvcLi  a)?  otov  re  paXicrra  kcl\6v  re  Kal  aya6ov. 

“ For  I hold  nothing  so  clear  as  this,  that  I must  be  as 
good  and  noble  as  a man  can  be.” 

I cannot  refrain  from  setting  down  the  drift  of  his 
talk  to  a young  man  who  was  going  to  the  University. — 
“ If  a man  is  merely  to  be  a bundle  of  sensations, 
he  had  better  not  exist  at  all.  He  should  embark  on 
his  career  in  the  spirit  of  selfless  and  adventurous 
heroism;  should  develop  his  true  self  by  not  shirking 
responsibility,  by  casting  aside  all  maudlin  and  intro- 
spective morbidities,  and  by  using  his  powers  cheerfully 
in  accordance  with  the  obvious  dictates  of  his  moral 
consciousness,  and  so,  as  far  as  possible,  in  harmony 
with  what  he  feels  to  be  the  Absolute  Right. 

Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 

Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncall’d  for)  but  to  live  by  law , 


3 1 8 “in  MEMORIAM.”  [1850 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence. 

It  is  motive,  it  is  the  great  purpose  which  consecrates 
life1.  The  real  test  of  a man  is  not  what  he  knows,  but 
what  he  is  in  himself  and  in  his  relation  to  others.  For 
instance,  can  he  battle  against  his  own  bad  inherited 
instincts,  or  brave  public  opinion  in  the  cause  of  truth? 
The  love  of  God  is  the  true  basis  of  duty,  truth,  reverence, 
loyalty,  love,  virtue  and  work.  I believe  in  these  al- 
though I feel  the  emptiness  and  hollowness  of  much  of 
life.  ‘ Be  ye  perfect  as  your  Father  in  heaven  is  perfect.’  ” 
Then  he  added  characteristically : “ But  don’t  be  a prig. 
Most  young  men  with  anything  in  them  make  fools  of 
themselves  at  some  time  or  other.” 

One  of  the  last  passages  I heard  him  recite  about 
Free-will  was : 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time, 
Corrupts  the  strength  of  Heaven-descended  Will, 
And  ever  weaker  grows  thro’  acted  crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o’er  a weary  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a grain  of  salt. 

And  he  wrote  for  me  as  to  man’s  will  being  free  but 
only  within  certain  limits : “ Man’s  Free-will  is  but  a bird 
in  a cage;  he  can  stop  at  the  lower  perch,  or  he  can 

1 St  Paul’s  expression  11  The  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ” he  thought 

had  had  a powerful  effect  on  the  Christian  appreciation  of  the  meaning  of 
life. 


1850]  HIS  LONGING  FOR  THE  DIVINE.  319 

mount  to  a higher.  Then  that  which  is  and  knows  will 
enlarge  his  cage,  give  him  a higher  and  a higher  perch, 
and  at  last  break  off  the  top  of  his  cage,  and  let  him  out 
to  be  one  with  the  Free-will  of  the  Universe.”  Then 
he  said  earnestly:  “If  the  absorption  into  the  divine 
in  the  after-life  be  the  creed  of  some,  let  them  at  all 
events  allow  us  many  existences  of  individuality  before 
this  absorption;  since  this  short-lived  individuality  seems 
to  be  but  too  short  a preparation  for  so  mighty  a 
union1.” 

Death’s  truer  name 

Is  “ Onward,”  no  discordance  in  the  roll 
And  march  of  that  Eternal  Harmony 
Whereto  the  worlds  beat  time. 

In  the  same  way,  “ O living  will  that  shalt  endure  ” 
he  explained  as  that  which  we  know  as  Free-will,  the 
higher  and  enduring  part  of  man.  He  held  that  there 
was  an  intimate  connexion  between  the  human  and  the 
divine,  and  that  each  individual  will  had  a spiritual  and 
eternal  significance  with  relation  to  other  individual  wills 
as  well  as  to  the  Supreme  and  Eternal  Will. 

Throughout  his  life  he  had  a constant  feeling  of  a 
spiritual  harmony  existing  between  ourselves  and  the 
outward  visible  Universe,  and  of  the  actual  Immanence 
of  God  in  the  infinitesimal  atom  as  in  the  vastest  system2. 
“ If  God,”  he  would  say,  “were  to  withdraw  Himself  for 
one  single  instant  from  this  Universe,  everything  would 
vanish  into  nothingness.”  When  speaking  on  that  sub- 
ject he  said  to  me  : “ My  most  passionate  desire  is  to 

1 “ In  Memoriam,”  No.  xlvii. 

2 He  would  point  out  the  difficulties  of  materialism,  and  would  propound 
to  us,  when  we  were  boys,  the  old  puzzle : “ Look  at  the  mystery  of  a grain 
of  sand;  you  can  divide  it  for  ever  and  for  ever.  You  cannot  conceive 
anything  material  of  which  you  cannot  conceive  the  half.”  He  disliked 
the  Atomic  theory : and  was  taken  by  the  theory  of  aboriginal  centres  of 
force. 


320  “ IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

have  a clearer  and  fuller  vision  of  God.  The  soul  seems 
to  me  one  with  God,  how  I cannot  tell.  I can  sym- 
pathize with  God  in  my  poor  little  way.”  In  some 
phases  of  thought  and  feeling  his  idealism  tended  more 
decidedly  to  mysticism.  He  wrote  : “A  kind  of  waking 
trance  I have  frequently  had,  quite  up  from  boyhood, 
when  I have  been  all  alone.  This  has  generally  come 
upon  me  thro’  repeating  my  own  name  two  or  three 
times  to  myself  silently,  till  all  at  once,  as  it  were  out 
of  the  intensity  of  the  consciousness  of  individuality, 
the  individuality  itself  seemed  to  dissolve  and  fade  away 
into  boundless  being,  and  this  not  a confused  state,  but 
the  clearest  of  the  clearest,  the  surest  of  the  surest,  the 
weirdest  of  the  weirdest,  utterly  beyond  words,  where 
death  was  an  almost  laughable  impossibility,  the  loss  of 
personality  (if  so  it  were)  seeming  no  extinction  but  the 
only  true  life1.”  “This  might,”  he  said,  “ be  the  state 
which  St  Paul  describes,  ‘ Whether  in  the  body  I cannot 
tell,  or  whether  out  of  the  body  I cannot  tell.’  ” 

He  continued : “ I am  ashamed  of  my  feeble  de- 
scription. Have  I not  said  the  state  is  utterly  beyond 
words  ? But  in  a moment,  when  I come  back  to  my 
normal  state  of  ‘ sanity,’  I am  ready  to  fight  for  mein 
liebes  Ich , and  hold  that  it  will  last  for  aeons  of  aeons.” 

In  the  same  way  he  said  that  there  might  be  a more 
intimate  communion  than  we  could  dream  of  between  the 
living  and  the  dead,  at  all  events  for  a time. 

May  all  love, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o’ershadow  Thee, 

Till  God’s  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again! 


1 Cf.  “The  Ancient  Sage,”  and  the  smaller  partial  anticipation  in  “In 
Memoriam,”  xcv.  st.  9. 

“ Yet  it  appeared  that  he  distinguished  himself  from  external  things.” 

Jowett,  MS  Note. 


1850]  “GOING  ON  AND  STILL  TO  BE.”  32 1 

And  — 

The  ghost  in  Man,  the  ghost  that  once  was  Man, 
But  cannot  wholly  free  itself  from  Man, 

Are  calling  to  each  other  through  a dawn 
Stranger  than  earth  has  ever  seen ; the  veil 
Is  rending,  and  the  Voices  of  the  day 
Are  heard  across  the  Voices  of  the  dark. 

I need  not  enlarge  upon  his  faith  in  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul  as  he  has  dwelt  upon  that  so  fully  in  his 
poems  h “ I can  hardly  understand,”  he  said,  “ how  any 
great,  imaginative  man,  who  has  deeply  lived,  suffered, 
thought  and  wrought,  can  doubt  of  the  Soul’s  continu- 
ous progress  in  the  after-life.”  His  poem  of  “ Wages  ” 
he  liked  to  quote  on  this  subject. 

He  more  than  once  said  what  he  has  expressed  in 
“ Vastness  ”:  “ Hast  Thou  made  all  this  for  naught!  Is 
all  this  trouble  of  life  worth  undergoing  if  we  only  end 
in  our  own  corpse-coffins  at  last  ? If  you  allow  a God, 
and  God  allows  this  strong  instinct  and  universal  yearn- 
ing for  another  life,  surely  that  is  in  a measure  a pre- 
sumption of  its  truth.  We  cannot  give  up  the  mighty 
hopes  that  make  us  men.” 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 

That  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 

Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I ? 

I have  heard  him  even  say  that  he  “would  rather 
know  that  he  was  to  be  lost  eternally  than  not  know  that 
the  whole  human  race  was  to  live  eternally  ” ; and  when 
he  speaks  of  “ faintly  trusting  the  larger  hope  ” he  means 
by  “ the  larger  hope  ” that  the  whole  human  race  would 

1 He  said  to  Bishop  Lightfoot : “ The  cardinal  point  of  Christianity  is 
the  Life  after  Death  ” (2  Tim.  chap.  i.). 


t.  1. 


21 


32  2 “IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

through,  perhaps,  ages  of  suffering,  be  at  length  purified 
and  saved,  even  those  who  now  “ better  not  with  time  ” ; 
so  that  at  the  end  of  “ The  Vision  of  Sin  ” we  read 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 

One  day  towards  the  end  of  his  life  he  bade  me  look 
into  the  Revised  Version  and  see  how  the  Revisers  had 
translated  the  passage  “ Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into 
everlasting  fire.”  His  disappointment  was  keen  when 
he  found  that  the  translators  had  not  altered  “everlast- 
ing ” into  “ aeonian 1 ” or  some  such  word : for  he  never 
would  believe  that  Christ  could  preach  “ everlasting 
punishment.” 

“ Fecemi  la  divina  potestate 
La  somma  sapienza,  e ’1  primo  amore,” 
were  words  which  he  was  fond  of  quoting  in  this  rela- 
tion, as  if  they  were  a kind  of  unconscious  confession 
by  Dante  that  Love  must  conquer  at  the  last. 

Letters  were  not  unfrequently  addressed  to  him 
asking  what  his  opinions  were  about  Evolution,  about 
Prayer,  and  about  Christ. 

Of  Evolution  he  said : “ That  makes  no  difference  to 
me,  even  if  the  Darwinians  did  not,  as  they  do,  exag- 
gerate Darwinism.  To  God  all  is  present.  He  sees 
present,  past,  and  future  as  one.” 

To  your  question  now 

Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his  work. 

“ Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light  ” : ’tis  so : 

For  was  and  is  and  will  be  are  but  is : 

And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 

The  birth  of  light ; but  we  that  are  not  all, 

As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this,  now  that, 

And  live  perforce  from  thought  to  thought,  and  make 

The  act  a phantom  of  succession : there 

Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the  shadow,  Time. 


i “ Eternal”  in  R.  V. 


I860]  “THE  HEIGHT  THAT  IS  HIGHER.”  323 

In  the  poem  “ By  an  Evolutionist,”  written  in  1888 
when  he  was  dangerously  ill,  he  defined  his  position ; he 
conceived  that  the  further  science  progressed,  the  more 
the  Unity  of  Nature,  and  the  purpose  hidden  behind 
the  cosmic  process  of  matter  in  motion  and  changing 
forms  of  life,  would  be  apparent.  Someone  asked  him 
whether  it  was  not  hard  to  account  for  genius  by 
Evolution.  He  put  aside  the  question,  for  he  believed 
that  genius  was  the  greatest  mystery  to  itself  k 

To  Tyndall  he  once  said,  “No  evolutionist  is  able  to 
explain  the  mind  of  Man  or  how  any  possible  physio- 
logical change  of  tissue  can  produce  conscious  thought2.” 
Yet  he  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  theory  of  Evo- 
lution caused  the  world  to  regard  more  clearly  the 
“ Life  of  Nature  as  a lower  stage  in  the  manifestation 
of  a principle  which  is  more  fully  manifested  in  the 
spiritual  life  of  man,  with  the  idea  that  in  this  process  of 
Evolution  the  lower  is  to  be  regarded  as  a means  to  the 
higher 3.” 

1 “ People,”  he  once  said,  u do  not  consider  that  every  human  being  is  a 
vanful  of  human  beings,  of  those  who  have  gone  before  him,  and  of  those 
who  form  part  of  his  life.” 

2 Cf.  Tyndall’s  Scientific  Materialism : “ But  the  passage  from  the  physics 
of  the  brain  to  the  corresponding  facts  of  consciousness  is  unthinkable, 
granted  that  a definite  thought  and  a definite  molecular  action  in  the 
brain  occur  simultaneously ; we  do  not  possess  the  intellectual  organ,  nor 
apparently  any  rudiment  of  the  organ,  which  would  enable  us  to  pass,  by 
a process  of  reasoning,  from  the  one  to  the  other.  They  appear  together,  but 
we  do  not  know  why.” 

3 In  a letter  from  the  present  Master  of  Balliol  to  me. 

And  in  “ In  Memoriam  ” he  had  written  thus  : 

They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 

The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch’d  from  clime  to  clime 
The  herald  of  a higher  race, 


[1850 


324  “ IN  MEMORIAM.” 

In  “ Maud  ” he  spoke  of  the  making  of  man  : 

As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for 
his  birth, 

So  many  a million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making 
of  man : 

He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ? 

The  answer  he  would  give  to  this  query  was : “ No, 
mankind  is  as  yet  on  one  of  the  lowest  rungs  of  the 
ladder1,  although  every  man  has  and  has  had  from 
everlasting  his  true  and  perfect  being  in  the  Divine 
Consciousness.” 

About  prayer  he  said:  “ The  reason  why  men  find  it 
hard  to  regard  prayer  in  the  same  light  in  which  it  was 
formerly  regarded  is,  that  we  seem  to  know  more  of  the 
unchangeableness  of  Law:  but  I believe  that  God 
reveals  Himself  in  each  individual  soul.  Prayer  is,  to 
take  a mundane  simile,  like  opening  a sluice  between  the 
great  ocean  and  our  little  channels  when  the  great  sea 
gathers  itself  together  and  flows  in  at  full  tide.” 

“ Prayer  on  our  part  is  the  highest  aspiration  of  the 
soul.” 


And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 

Or,  crown’d  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 
That  life  is  not  an  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 

And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter’d  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 
And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 


1 “ The  herald  of  a higher  race.” 


1850] 


PRAYER. 


325 


A breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron  world 
And  touches  Him  who  made  it. 

And 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with 
Spirit  can  meet  — 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands 
and  feet. 

And 

More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of. 

He  said  that  “ O Thou  Infinite,  Amen,”  was  the 
form  of  prayer  which  he  himself  used  in  the  time  of 
trouble  and  sorrow:  and  that  it  was  better  to  suffer 
than  to  lose  the  power  of  suffering. 

When  questions  were  written  to  him  about  Christ, 
he  would  say  to  me : “Answer  for  me  that  I have  given 
my  belief  in  ‘ In  Memoriam1.’” 

As  the  Master  of  Balliol  wrote: 

The  “ In  Memoriam  ” records  most  of  his  inner  nature.  It 
was  the  higher  and  prevailing  temper  of  his  mind.  He  used  to 
regard  it  as  having  said  what  he  had  to  say  on  religion. 

The  main  testimony  to  Christianity  he  found  not  in 
miracles  but  in  that  eternal  witness,  the  revelation  of 
what  might  be  called  “ The  Mind  of  God,”  in  the 
Christian  morality,  and  its  correlation  with  the  divine 
in  man. 

He  had  a measureless  admiration  for  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount ; and  for  the  Parables  — “ perfection,  beyond 
compare,”  he  called  them.  I heard  a talk  on  these  be- 
tween him  and  Browning,  and  Browning  fully  agreed  with 
my  father  in  his  admiration.  Moreover  my  father  expressed 
his  conviction  that  “ Christianity  with  its  divine  Morality 

1 u In  Memoriam,”  xxxvi. 


326  “ IN  MEMORIAM.”  [l850 

but  without  the  central  figure  of  Christ,  the  Son  of  Man, 
would  become  cold  \ and  that  it  is  fatal  for  religion  to 
lose  its  warmth  ” ; that  “ The  Son  of  Man  ” was  the  most 
tremendous  title  possible ; that  the  forms  of  Christian 
religion  would  alter;  but  that  the  spirit  of  Christ  would 
still  grow  from  more  to  more  “ in  the  roll  of  the  ages.” 

Till  each  man  find  his  own  in  all  men’s  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood. 

“ This  is  one  of  my  meanings,”  he  said,  “ of 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be: 

when  Christianity  without  bigotry  will  triumph,  when 
the  controversies  of  creeds  shall  have  vanished,  and 

Shall  bear  false  witness,  each  of  each,  no  more, 

But  find  their  limits  by  that  larger  light, 

And  overstep  them,  moving  easily 

Thro’  after-ages  in  the  Love  of  Truth, 

The  truth  of  Love2.” 

“ The  most  pathetic  utterance  in  all  history,”  he  said, 
“ is  that  of  Christ  on  the  Cross,  ‘ It  is  finished,’  after  that 
passionate  cry,  ‘ My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  Thou 
forsaken  Me?’”  Nevertheless  he  also  recognized  the 
note  of  triumph  in  “It  is  finish’d3.”  “I  am  always 
amazed  when  I read  the  New  Testament  at  the  splen- 
dour of  Christ’s  purity  and  holiness  and  at  His  infinite 
pity4.”  He  disliked  discussion  on  the  Nature  of  Christ, 
“seeing  that  such  discussion  was  mostly  unprofitable, 
for  none  knoweth  the  Son  but  the  Father.”  “ He 
went  about  doing  good”  he  would  say:  and  one  of  the 

1 “ He  did  not  preach  His  opinions ; He  preached  Himself.”  Renan’s 
Vie  de  Jesus.  “The  spiritual  character  of  Christ,”  my  father  would  say, 
“is  more  wonderful  than  the  greatest  miracle.” 

2 “ Akbar’s  Dream.” 

3 See  The  Death  of  (Enone , and  other  Poems , p.  80.  Westcott  writes : 
“I  always  think  that  the  tense  eyKareXt7res  marks  the  crisis  as  past.” 

4 What  he  called  “the  man-woman  ” in  Christ,  the  union  of  tenderness  and 
strength. 


1850 ] “BETTER  THAN  ANY  MONUMENT.”  327 

traditional  and  unwritten  sayings  of  Christ  which  oftenest 
came  home  to  him  was,  “ He  that  is  near  Me  is  near  the 
fire,”  the  baptism  of  the  fire  of  inspiration.  For  in  “ In 
Memoriam  ” the  soul,  after  grappling  with  anguish  and 
darkness,  doubt  and  death,  emerges  with  the  inspiration 
of  a strong  and  steadfast  faith  in  the  Love  of  God  for 
man,  and  in  the  oneness  of  man  with  God,  and  of  man 
with  man  in  Him  - — 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 

One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 

And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 

I cannot  end  this  chapter  on  “ In  Memoriam  ” more 
fitly  than  by  quoting  Henry  Hallam’s  letter  on  receiving 
in  1850  what  he  calls  “the  precious  book.” 

I know  not  how  to  express  what  I have  felt.  My  first 
sentiment  was  surprise,  for,  though  I now  find  that  you  had 
mentioned  the  intention  to  my  daughter,  Julia,  she  had  never 
told  me  of  the  poems.  I do  not  speak  as  another  would  to 
praise  and  admire  : few  of  them  indeed  I have  as  yet  been 
capable  of  reading,  the  grief  they  express  is  too  much  akin  to 
that  they  revive.  It  is  better  than  any  monument  which  could 
be  raised  to  the  memory  of  my  beloved  son,  it  is  a more  lively 
and  enduring  testimony  to  his  great  virtues  and  talents  that  the 
world  should  know  the  friendship  which  existed  between  you, 
that  posterity  should  associate  his  name  with  that  of  Alfred 
Tennyson. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


MARRIAGE  (1850-51). 


Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words. 


My  father  and  mother  had  met  in  the  spring  of  1850 
at  Shiplake  on  the  Thames ; where  they  had  both  stayed 
with  the  Rawnsleys,  Mrs  Rawnsley  being  my  mother’s 
cousin. 

If  “ In  Memoriam  ” were  published,  Moxon  had 
promised  a small  yearly  royalty  on  this  and  on  the  other 
poems,  and  so  my  father  had  decided  that  he  could  now 
honourably  offer  my  mother  a home. 

Accordingly  after  ten  years  of  separation  their  en- 
gagement was  renewed. 

Early  in  those  ten  years  my  grandmother  had  sug- 
gested dividing  her  jointure  with  them,  so  that  they 
might  marry,  but  this,  of  course,  they  could  not  allow. 
Moxon  now  advanced  ^300 — so  my  Uncle  Charles  told 
a friend,  — at  all  events  ^300  were  in  my  father’s  bank 
in  his  name ; and  with  this  and  their  united  small  in- 
comes, and  all  household  furniture  given  them  by  my 
mother’s  father,  they  decided  that  they  could  brave 
life  together  and  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  at 
Shiplake  on  the  13th  of  June,  the  month  which  saw  the 
publication  of  “ In  Memoriam.” 

328 


1850]  THE  WEDDING  IN  SHIPLAKE  CHURCH.  329 

Of  the  Vicarage  with  its  terraced  garden,  and  of 
the  fine  old  church  Miss  Mitford  gives  the  following 
picturesque  description : 

A few  miles  further,  and  a turn  to  the  right  conducts  us  to  one 
of  the  grand  old  village  churches,  which  give  so  much  of  character 
to  English  landscape.  A large  and  beautiful  pile  it  is.  The  tower, 
half  clothed  with  ivy,  stands  with  its  charming  vicarage  and 
its  pretty  vicarage-garden  on  a high  eminence,  overhanging  one 
of  the  finest  bends  of  the  great  river.  A woody  lane  leads  from 
the  church  to  the  bottom  of  the  chalk-cliff,  one  side  of  which 
stands  out  from  the  road  below,  like  a promontory,  surmounted 
by  the  laurel  hedges  and  flowery  cedar  of  Lebanon.  This  is 
Shiplake  church,  famed  far  and  near  for  its  magnificent  oak 
carving,  and  the  rich  painted  glass  of  its  windows,  collected,  long 
before  such  adornments  were  fashionable,  by  the  fine  taste  of  the 
late  vicar,  and  therefore  filled  with  the  very  choicest  specimens 
of  mediaeval  art,  chiefly  obtained  from  the  remains  of  the 
celebrated  Abbey  of  St  Bertin  near  St  Omer,  sacked  during  the 
first  French  Revolution.  In  this  church  Alfred  Tennyson  was 
married. 

The  wedding  was  of  the  quietest  (even  the  cake  and 
dresses  arriving  too  late),  which  made  my  father  say,  to 
the  amusement  of  those  who  were  present,  that  it  was 
“ the  nicest  wedding  ” he  had  ever  been  at.  In  after-life 
he  said  : “ The  peace  of  God  came  into  my  life  before  the 
altar  when  I wedded  her.” 

The  marriage  party  consisted  of  the  bride’s  father1, 
Henry  Sellwood,  Edmund  and  Cecilia  Lushington, 
Charles  Weld,  husband  of  Anne,  one  of  the  Sellwood 
sisters,  and  Mr  Greville  Phillimore.  The  two  child 
bridesmaids  were  Mary  and  Margaret  Rawnsley. 

1 He  was  a stately,  courteous  gentleman,  kindly,  cultivated,  unaffected, 
and  above  all  a good  friend.  His  family  had  come  in  old  days  from 
Somersetshire  into  Berkshire.  He  himself  was  a solicitor  at  Horncastle. 
Greatly  to  his  honour  he  had  taken  up  this  profession  when  his  family  was 
on  the  road  to  ruin.  In  1812  he  had  married  Sarah  Franklin,  sister  of  the 
“heroic  sailor”  Sir  John  Franklin,  but  she  had  died  in  1816,  aged  28,  leaving 
three  daughters,  Emily,  Anne,  and  Louisa. 


330  MARRIAGE.  [l850 

My  uncle  Charles  and  Louisa  Tennyson  Turner  could 
not  join  the  party,  and  my  uncle  wrote  accordingly : 

Oh  what  a queer  world  it  is ! I hope  however  it  has  done 
a brace  of  amiable  and  remarkable  people  some  genuine  good, 
whirligig  as  it  is  — this  time  at  least.  Well ! The  thing  is  to 
come  off  on  the  13th,  daddy  says.  Good  wishes  in  crowds  from 
me.  I despatch  a dove’s  wing  to  you.  I am  going  to  keep 
pigeons,  would  they  were  carrier  pigeons!  then  would  I trouble 
their  wings  with  missives  of  congratulation  to  arrive  more 
swiftly  than  the  railroad. 

Coo  ! coo  ! coo  ! Your  affectionate  brother, 

Charles. 


My  father  made  and  repeated  the  following  poem,  as 
my  mother  and  he  drove  from  Shiplake  to  Pangbourne; 
enclosing  it  to  Drummond  Rawnsley  through  Mrs 
Rawnsley. 


My  dear  Kate, 


You  managed  it  all  very  well  yesterday. 
Many  thanks. 


Ever  yours,  A.  T. 


P.S.  Dubbie’s 1 fees  must  be  come  at  as  he  can  best 
manage.  The  clerk  and  shirts  are  owing. 

The  poem  would  be  more  perfect  without  the  third 
stanza,  but  I do  not  think  you  would  like  to  miss  it. 


To  the  Vicar  of  Shiplake . ( Unpublished, .) 

Vicar  of  this  pleasant  spot 

Where  it  was  my  chance  to  marry, 
Happy,  happy  be  your  lot 

In  the  Vicarage  by  the  quarry. 

You  were  he  that  knit  the  knot ! 


1 Short  for  Drummond. 


cWa.t^er  outa££.  tyA  S c 


4i\ 


' ejvru^S'OTis, 

j^'xrrrt  t/ie.  o rbrxtob  aJ'  Cl^cLwxn~tJv ,jicu/ivttd  %U . 


1850] 


MY  MOTHER. 


331 


Sweetly,  smoothly  flow  your  life. 

Never  tithe  unpaid  perplex  you, 

Parish  feud,  or  party  strife, 

All  things  please  you,  nothing  vex  you, 

You  have  given  me  such  a wife! 

Live  and  prosper ! Day  by  day 
Watch  your  standard  roses  blowing, 

And  your  three  young  things  at  play, 

And  your  triple  terrace  growing 
Green  and  greener  every  May ! 

Sweetly  flow  your  life  with  Kate’s, 

Glancing  off  from  all  things  evil, 

Smooth  as  Thames  below  your  gates, 

Thames  along  the  silent  level, 

Streaming  thro’  his  osier’d  aits  ! 

And  let  me  say  here  — although,  as  a son,  I cannot 
allow  myself  full  utterance  about  her  whom  I loved  as 
perfect  mother  and  “very  woman  of  very  woman,”  — 
“ such  a wife  ” and  true  helpmate  she  proved  herself. 
It  was  she  who  became  my  father’s  adviser  in  literary 
matters  ; “ I am  proud  of  her  intellect,”  he  wrote.  With 
her  he  always  discussed  what  he  was  working  at;  she 
transcribed  his  poems  : to  her  and  to  no  one  else  he 
referred  for  a Anal  criticism  before  publishing.  She, 
with  her  “tender,  spiritual  nature1,”  and  instinctive  no- 
bility of  thought,  was  always  by  his  side,  a ready,  cheerful, 
courageous,  wise,  and  sympathetic  counsellor.  It  was  she 
who  shielded  his  sensitive  spirit  from  the  annoyances  and 
trials  of  life,  answering  (for  example)  the  innumerable 
letters  addressed  to  him  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  By 
her  quiet  sense  of  humour,  by  her  selfless  devotion,  by 
“ her  faith  as  clear  as  the  heights  of  the  June-blue 
heaven,”  she  helped  him  also  to  the  utmost  in  the  hours 


1 My  father’s  words. 


332  MARRIAGE.  [l850 

of  his  depression  and  of  his  sorrow;  and  to  her  he  wrote 
two  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  shorter  lyrics,  “ Dear, 
near  and  true,”  and  the  dedicatory  lines  which  prefaced 
his  last  volume,  The  Death  of  CEnone . 

The  day  after  the  wedding  they  went  to  Weston- 
super-Mare,  on  their  way  to  Clevedon.  “ It  seemed  a 
kind  of  consecration  to  go  there.”  They  saw  Arthur 
Hallam’s  resting-place,  and  were  received  by  Sir  Abra- 
ham Elton  in  the  beautiful  old  Manor  House,  Clevedon 
Court ; and  thence  they  went  to  Lynton.  In  that  coun- 
try, more  solitary  then  than  now,  they  enjoyed  long 
rambles  through  the  woods  and  over  the  heather  and 
rode  to  the  Valley  of  Rocks  and  Exmoor,  in  spite  of 
“ the  weeping  Devonshire  climate.” 

Glastonbury,  one  of  the  reputed  “ island  valleys  of 
Avilion,”  followed  : where  they  lunched  in  what  had  been 
the  Refectory  of  the  old  Hospital  for  Pilgrims,  built  by 
an  Abbot,  John  de  Selwode,  of  the  same  name  and  race 
as  my  mother.  This  Abbot  alone,  as  they  were  told,  is 
buried  beside  the  tomb  of  King  Arthur,  in  the  chancel 
of  that  famous  Abbey,  — once  the  wonder  of  the  world, 
now  but  a few  ruins  in  a garden.  My  father  was 
greatly  interested  by  the  legend  that  Joseph  of  Arima- 
thea  came  there  in  63  a.d.  and  founded  the  first  Chris- 
tian colony  in  England  : 

From  our  old  books  I know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arviragus, 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to  build  ; 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from  the  marsh 
A little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore. 

Clifton  was  the  next  halting-place  ; thence  they  went 
to  Bath,  and  on  to  Cheltenham  to  visit  his  mother. 
Many  honeymoon  houses  were  offered  ; among  others 
Brancepeth  by  his  cousins,  Fryston  by  R.  M.  Milnes, 


1850] 


CONISTON. 


333 


Tent  Lodge,  Coniston,  by  Mrs  James  Marshall,  a sister 
of  my  father’s  college  friend,  Stephen  Spring  Rice. 
They  selected  Tent  Lodge,  and  set  off  for  Patterdale 
and  Ullswater,  then  to  “ the  little  villa  on  Coniston 
water.”  On  their  arrival  my  father  writes  to  Mrs 
Russell : 

Dearest  Aunt, 

Have  you  yet  received  the  bound  copy  of 
“ In  Memoriam  ” which  I purposed  for  you  ? If  not, 
will  you  or  Emma  drop  me  a line  to  this  place,  and  I 
will  take  care  that  you  have  it  immediately?  We  have 
been  making  a little  tour  about  these  lakes,  and  have 
spent  the  last  few  days  with  my  friends  the  Speddings 
at  Bassenthwaite  Water.  We  only  arrived  here  last  night. 
Mr  Marshall’s  park  looked  as  lovely  as  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  as  we  descended  the  hill  to  this  place.  We  have 
a very  beautiful  view  from  our  drawing-room  windows, 
crag,  mountain,  woods  and  lake,  which  look  especially 
fine  as  the  sun  is  dropping  behind  the  hills.  I wish  you 
could  see  it.  The  Marshalls  themselves  are  not  here 
but  expected  daily.  We  found  the  seat  of  a Marshall 
on  almost  every  lake  we  came  to,  for  it  seems  there 
are  several  brothers  who  have  all  either  bought  or  been 
left  estates  in  this  country ; and  they  are  all,  report  says, 
as  wealthy  as  Croesus.  I send  you  this  little  note  just 
to  tell  you  where  we  are,  and  how  much  your  bounty 
has  enabled  us  to  enjoy  ourselves  among  the  mountains. 
We  have  been  on  the  whole  fortunate  in  weather,  tho’ 
this  climate  has  a bad  name.  I do  not  know  whether 
you  are  at  Cheltenham  or  Burwarton,  but  wherever  you 
are,  dearest  aunt,  God  bless  and  preserve  you  from  all 
ill.  My  wife  desires  her  kindest  love  to  you.  Good-bye. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

A.  Tennyson. 


334 


MARRIAGE. 


[l850 

The  drives  and  walks  over  the  mountains,  the  boating 
on  the  lake  among  the  water-lilies  and  by  the  islands 
where  the  herons  built,  he  rowing,  she  steering,  are  noted 
in  their  diary. 

Here  for  the  first  time  my  mother  saw  Carlyle,  who 
was  staying  with  the  Marshalls.  The  meeting  was 
characteristic ; he  slowly  scanned  her  from  head  to  foot, 
then  gave  her  a hearty  shake  of  the  hand.  Next  day 
he  called  at  Tent  Lodge ; and,  hearing  her  cough,  “ with 
his  invariable  kindness  ” stole  round,  while  the  others 
were  talking,  and  shut  the  window  which  was  open  be- 
hind her1. 

One  evening  Mr  Venables  and  Mr  de  Vere  called. 
They  talked  for  about  an  hour  with  my  father  — my 
mother  having  already  retired  to  rest.  At  last,  after 
puffing  at  his  pipe  for  some  moments  in  silence,  my 
father  spoke  “ like  one  thinking  aloud  ” : “I  have  known 
many  women  who  were  excellent,  one  in  one  way, 
another  in  another  way,  but  this  woman  is  the  noblest 
woman  I have  ever  known2.”  As  Aubrey  de  Vere 
writes  to  me : “ No  friend  who  had  then  heard  him 
could  have  felt  any  further  anxiety  as  to  his  domestic 
happiness.” 

The  Marshalls  offered  my  father  and  mother  Tent 
Lodge  as  a permanent  home,  and  the  Ashburtons  a 
house  near  Croydon,  but  these  kind  offers  they  thought 
it  best  to  decline  and  went  for  a time  to  Park  House, 
to  find  a residence  of  their  own. 

On  November  19th  my  father  was  appointed  Poet 
Laureate,  owing  chiefly  to  Prince  Albert’s  admiration 
for  “ In  Memoriam.”  Wordsworth  had  been  now  dead 

1 Another  story  of  his  concern  for  others  my  father  would  tell.  “ Having 
heard  that  Henry  Taylor  was  ill,  Carlyle  rushed  off  from  London  to  Sheen 
with  a bottle  of  medicine,  which  had  done  Mrs  Carlyle  good,  without  in  the 
least  knowing  what  was  ailing  Henry  Taylor,  or  for  what  the  medicine  was 
useful.” 

2 MS,  Aubrey  de  Vere. 


THE  LAUREATESHIP. 


335 


1850] 

some  months;  and  my  father,  as  he  has  assured  me, 
had  not  any  expectation  of  the  Laureateship,  or  any 
thought  upon  the  subject : it  seemed  to  him  therefore 
a very  curious  coincidence,  that  the  night  before  the 
offer  reached  him  he  dreamt  that  Prince  Albert  came 
and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek,  and  that  he  said  in  his 
dream,  “ Very  kind,  but  very  German.” 

In  the  morning  this  letter  about  the  Laureateship 
was  brought  to  his  bedroom : 

Windsor  Castle,  Nov.  1850. 

By  the  death  of  the  late  lamented  Wm.  Wordsworth  the 
Office  of  Poet  Laureate  to  the  Queen  became  at  Her  Majesty’s 
disposal. 

The  ancient  duties  of  this  Office,  which  consisted  in  laudatory 
Odes  to  the  Sovereign,  have  been  long,  as  you  are  probably 
aware,  in  abeyance,  and  have  never  been  called  for  during  the 
Reign  of  Her  present  Majesty.  The  Queen  however  has  been 
anxious  that  the  Office  should  be  maintained  ; first  on  account 
of  its  antiquity,  and  secondly  because  it  establishes  a connection, 
through  Her  Household,  between  Her  Majesty  and  the  poets  of 
this  country  as  a body. 

To  make  however  the  continuance  of  this  Office  in  harmony 
with  public  opinion,  the  Queen  feels  that  it  is  necessary  that  it 
should  be  limited  to  a name  bearing  such  distinction  in  the 
literary  world  as  to  do  credit  to  the  appointment,  and  it  was 
under  this  feeling,  that  Her  Majesty  in  the  first  instance  offered 
the  appointment  to  Mr  Rogers,  who  stated  to  Her  Majesty,  in 
his  reply,  that  the  only  reason  which  compelled  him  gratefully 
to  decline  Her  Majesty’s  gracious  intention,  was,  that  his  great 
age  rendered  him  unfit  to  receive  any  new  office. 

It  is  under  the  same  desire  that  the  name  of  the  poet 
appointed  should  adorn  the  Office,  that  I have  received  the 
commands  of  the  Queen  to  offer  this  post  to  you,  as  a mark  of 
Her  Majesty’s  appreciation  of  your  literary  distinction. 

I have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir, 

Your  obedient  humble  servant, 

C.  B.  Phipps. 


336  MARRIAGE.  [l850 

He  took  the  whole  day  to  consider  and  at  the  last 
wrote  two  letters,  one  accepting,  one  refusing,  and  deter- 
mined to  make  up  his  mind  after  a consultation  with  his 
friends  at  dinner.  He  would  joke  and  say,  “ In  the  end 
I accepted  the  honour,  because  during  dinner  Venables 
told  me,  that,  if  I became  Poet  Laureate,  I should 
always  when  I dined  out  be  offered  the  liver-wing  of  a 
fowl.  * 

After  accepting  the  Laureateship  he  writes  to  the 
Rev.  H.  Rawnsley: 

My  dear  Rawnsley, 

You  do  ill  to  seem  as  though  you  blamed 
me  for  forgetfulness  of  you  and  yours;  you  know  it  is 
not  so,  and  can  never  be  so,  but  I confess  that  in  the 
matter  of  letter-writing  I am  in  arrear  to  everybody. 
I have  dozens  of  letters  to  write  this  afternoon,  and 
I cannot  help  wishing  that  I could  hire  the  electric 
telegraph  once  a month,  and  so  work  off  my  scores  with 
the  wires  at  whatever  expense.  This  old-world,  slow 
pen  and  ink  operation  is  behind  the  age.  I thank  you 
for  your  congratulations  touching  the  Laureateship.  I 
was  advised  by  my  friends  not  to  decline  it  # # I 
have  no  passion  for  courts,  but  a great  love  of  privacy. 
It  is,  I believe,  scarce  ^100  a year,  and  my  friend  R.  M. 
Milnes  tells  me  that  the  price  of  the  patent  and  court 
dress  will  swallow  up  all  the  first  year’s  income.  I have 
mislaid  your  letter,  and  so  cannot  tell  whether  you  asked 
me  any  questions.  Let  me  ask  you  one.  I have  been 
looking  out  for  an  unfurnished  house,  with  good  rooms, 
for  £bo  a year  or  thereabouts : do  you  know  of  any  such 
near  you?  If  you  do,  please  communicate  with  me  and 
I will  come  and  see  it.  I expect  an  heir  to  nothing 
about  next  March  or  April.  I suppose  I must  lay  by 
the  Laureate’s  hire  for  him  as  Southey  did.  Pray  give 


1850]  FIRST  HOME  IN  SUSSEX.  337 

my  kindest  love  to  Mrs  R.  and  my  best  remembrances 
to  all  friends,  particularly  G.  Coltman,  and 

Believe  me  yours  affectionately, 

A.  Tennyson. 

The  immediate  result  of  becoming  Poet  Laureate 
was  that  poems  and  letters  poured  in,  and  my  father 
writes : “ I get  such  shoals  of  poems  that  I am  almost 
crazed  with  them ; the  two  hundred  million  poets  of 
Great  Britain  deluge  me  daily  with  poems : truly  the 
Laureateship  is  no  sinecure.  If  any  good  soul  would 
just  by  way  of  a diversion  send  me  a tome  of  prose ! ” 
In  answer  to  an  appeal  from  Moxon  for  a fresh  volume 
of  new  poems,  he  said,  “We  are  correcting  all  the 
volumes  for  new  editions  V’ 

My  parents’  first  venture  in  the  choice  of  a home 
was  not  encouraging.  The  house  that  they  took  was  at 
Warninglid  in  Sussex,  pleasant  and  sunny,  with  large 
airy  rooms  from  which  there  was  a Copley-Fielding- 
like  view  of  the  South  Downs.  “ The  full  son^  of  the 
birds  delighted  us  as  we  drove  up  to  the  door,”  and  the 
home  seemed  at  first  in  every  way  suitable.  But  one  night 
soon  after  their  arrival  a tremendous  storm  blew  down 
part  of  the  wall  in  their  bedroom,  and  through  the  gap 
the  wind  raved  and  the  water  rushed.  Then  they  learnt 
that  their  dining-room  and  bedroom  had  been  a Roman 
Catholic  Chapel,  that  a baby  was  buried  somewhere  on 
the  premises,  and  later  that  one  of  a notorious  gang  of 
thieves  and  murderers  known  as  “ The  Cuckfield  Gang” 
had  lived  in  their  very  lodge. 

Besides  they  discovered  that  no  postman  came  near 

1 In  the  Keepsake  for  1851  were  published : 

What  time  I wasted  youthful  hours, 

and 

Come  not  when  I am  dead. 

This  last  poem,  “Edwin  Morris,”  “The  Eagle,”  and  the  Dedication 
“To  the  Queen,”  were  included  in  the  Poems , seventh  edition,  1851. 
t.  1. 


22 


MARRIAGE. 


38 


[l851 


the  house,  that  the  nearest  doctor  and  butcher  lived  at 
Horsham,  seven  miles  off;  and  that  there  was  not  even 
a carrier  who  passed  anywhere  within  hail.  Altogether 
everything  was  so  uncanny  and  so  uncomfortable,  that 
they  took  a speedy  departure,  my  father  drawing  my 
mother  in  a Bath  chair  over  a very  rough  road  to 
Cuckfield. 

Finally,  by  the  kind  aid  of  Mrs  Henry  Taylor,  they 
took  up  their  abode  at  Chapel  House,  Montpelier  Row, 
Twickenham;  a house  which  overlooked  the  parks  of 
General  Peel  and  of  the  Due  d’Aumale.  It  was  entered 
through  a square  hall,  and  on  the  fine  old  staircase 
stood  the  carved  figure  of  a mitred  bishop  “ as  if  to 
bless  the  passers  by.” 

On  the  2 1 st  February  their  diary  says:  “We  read 
Alton  Locke , drove  about  in  search  of  a Court  dress  for 
Levee,  could  not  find  one  and  had  to  give  up  Levee 
on  the  26th.  Rogers,  hearing  of  this,  offer’d  his  own 
dress,  which  had  been  also  worn  by  Wordsworth  and 
had  been  promised  to  the  Wordsworth  family  as  an 
heirloom.  The  coat  did  well  enough,  but  about  other 
parts  of  the  dress  there  was  some  anxiety  felt  for  the 
Levee  on  March  6th,  as  they  had  not  been  tried  on.” 

He  was  meditating  his  first  Laureate  poem,  “ To  the 
Queen,”  and  was  especially  thinking  of  a stanza  in  which 
“the  empire  of  Wordsworth  should  be  asserted:  for  he 
was  a representative  Poet  Laureate,  such  a poet  as  kings 
should  honour,  and  such  an  one  as  would  do  honour  to 
kings;  — making  the  period  of  a reign  famous  by  the 
utterance  of  memorable  words  concerning  that  period.” 
Spedding  wrote  to  my  father : “ Those  potentates  stand 
highest  in  the  estimation  of  succeeding  ages,  not  who 
have  been  best  praised  in  their  own  time,  but  who  have 
in  their  own  time  done  honour  and  given  aid  and  en- 
couragement to  that  which  remains  great  and  memorable 
in  all  time.” 


MACREADY. 


339 


185l] 

Later  in  March  he  stayed  at  Sir  Alexander  Duff 
Gordons ; and  whilst  there,  at  an  evening  party  given 
by  Lord  John  Russell,  was  introduced  to  Bunsen  and 
to  the  Duke  of  Argyll.  The  Duke  in  after  days  and 
to  the  end  of  my  father’s  life  was  one  of  his  most  valued 
friends. 

On  April  5th  he  received  from  Mr  Macready  a letter 
of  thanks  for  the  sonnet  addressed  to  him  on  leaving 
the  stage. 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night  we  part; 
Full-handed  thunders  often  have  confessed 
Thy  power,  well  used  to  move  the  public  breast. 
We  thank  thee  with  our  voice,  and  from  the  heart. 
Farewell,  Macready,  since  this  night  we  part, 

Go,  take  thine  honours  home ; rank  with  the  best, 
Garrick  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the  rest, 
Who  made  a nation  purer  thro’  their  art. 

Thine  is  it  that  our  drama  did  not  die, 

Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  pantomime, 

And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children  swarm  to  see. 

Farewell,  Macready;  moral,  grave,  sublime; 

Our  Shakespeare’s  bland  and  universal  eye 
Dwells  pleased,  thro’  twice  a hundred  years,  on  thee. 


From  W.  C.  Macready. 

Sherborne,  Dorset,  April  41k,  1851. 

My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

If  I had  obeyed  the  impulse  of  my  feelings,  I should 
have  written  to  you  long  since,  when  our  friend  Forster  first 
communicated  to  me  the  kindness  you  had  shown  me  in  honour- 
ing my  name  with  the  glory  of  your  verse.  This  was  some  days 
before  the  publication  of  your  lines,  and  he  may  have  told  you 
that  the  emotion  they  excited  in  me  was  a manifestation  of 
my  grateful  appreciation  beyond  what  words  can  render  you. 


340 


MARRIAGE. 


[l851 

You  have  indeed  embalmed  my  perishable  name,  which  will 
not  so  soon  be  lost  in  the  long  night,  as  “ carens  vate  sacro,” 
and  I may  truly  assure  you,  of  no  testimony  have  I felt  more 
proud,  and  on  none  have  I reflected  with  more  grateful  pleasure, 
than  on  that  which  bears  your  name. 

I remain,  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

Always  and  sincerely  yours, 

W.  C.  Macready. 

On  the  20th  of  April  my  parents’  first  child,  a boy, 
was  born,  and,  owing  to  my  mother’s  having  fallen  down 
a step,  died  in  the  birth.  At  the  time  my  father  wrote : 

“ It  was  Easter  Sunday  and  at  his  birth  I heard  the 
great  roll  of  the  organ,  of  the  uplifted  psalm  (in  the 
Chapel  adjoining  the  house)....  Dead  as  he  was  I felt 
proud  of  him.  To-day  when  I write  this  down,  the 
remembrance  of  it  rather  overcomes  me ; but  I am  glad 
that  I have  seen  him,  dear  little  nameless  one  that  hast 
lived  tho’  thou  hast  never  breathed,  I,  thy  father,  love 
thee  and  weep  over  thee,  tho’  thou  hast  no  place  in  the 

Universe.  Who  knows?  It  may  be  that  thou  hast 

God’s  Will  be  done.” 

In  the  summer  they  met  the  Carlyles  again.  About 
this  time  he  described  my  father  to  Sir  J.  Simeon  as 
“ sitting  on  a dung-heap  among  innumerable  dead  dogs.” 
Carlyle  meant  that  he  was  apt  to  brood  over  old-world 
subjects  for  his  poems.  Once  many  years  after,  when 
we  called  upon  him,  my  father  teazed  him  about  this 
utterance,  and  Carlyle  replied,  “ Eh ! that  was  not  a very 
luminous  description  of  you.” 

This  was  the  year  of  the  first  great  Exhibition,  and 
what  seems  to  have  most  delighted  my  father  was  the 
building  itself  and  the  great  glass  fountain. 

On  July  15th  they  left  for  Boulogne  on  their  way 
to  Italy.  “The  Daisy”  gives  the  journey  better  than 
any  prose  of  mine  can  give  it.  Jowett  writes,  “ He 


185l]  FLORENCE  AND  THE  BROWNINGS.  34 1 

always  had  a living  vision  of  Italy,  Greece  and  the 
Mediterranean.”  He  was  proud  of  the  metre  of  “ The 
Daisy  ” which  he  called  a far-off  echo  of  the  Horatian 
Alcaic  \ Among  the  many  metres  he  invented,  this  he 
ranked  among  his  best,  together  with  some  of  the 
anapaestic  movements  in  “ Maud,”  and  the  long-rolling 
rhythm  of  his  “ Ode  to  Virgil.”  On  their  journey  he 
took  with  him  his  usual  travelling  companions,  Shake- 
speare, Milton,  Homer,  Virgil,  Horace,  Pindar,  Theocri- 
tus, and  probably  the  Divina  Commedia  and  Goethe’s 
Gedichte. 

Italy  was  in  such  a disturbed  state  that  they  did 
not  go  to  Rome  as  they  had  intended.  The  fever  was 
prevalent  in  Venice,  so  this  had  also  to  be  given  up. 
They  stayed  three  weeks  at  the  Baths  of  Lucca  in  the 
house  of  one  Giorgio  Basantino,  opposite  a wood  where 
they  would  sit  watching  the  green  lizards  at  play.  There 
were  delightful  evening  drives  over  the  mountains ; and 
they  rejoiced  in  “ the  glorious  violet  colouring  of  the 
Apennines,  and  the  picturesqueness  of  the  peasants  beat- 
ing out  their  flax  or  spinning  with  their  distaffs  at  their 
cottage  doors.”  Thence  they  journeyed  to  Florence  to 
stay  with  my  uncle  Frederick  at  the  Villa  Torregiani, 
which  had  been  for  many  years  his  home.  On  September 
24th  they  left  Florence,  returning  by  way  of  the  “snowy 
Spliigen  ” to  Paris.  Here  the  Brownings  called  on  them 
at  their  hotel.  Mr  Browning,  already  my  father’s  friend, 
was  affectionate  as  ever.  Mrs  Browning  was  “fragile-look- 

o o 

ing,  with  great  spirit  eyes,”  and  met  my  mother  “as  if  she 
had  been  her  own  sister.”  Savile  Morton  came  too,  and  the 
diary  says:  “ His  wild  laugh  sounded  through  the  corridors. 
The  Brownings  gave  us,  before  parting,  two  beautiful 
Paris  nosegays  (the  flowers  arranged  in  a sort  of  Grecian 

1 He  was  pleased  with  the  slightly  different  effect  of  (substantially)  the 

same  metre  in  the  invitation  “To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,1 11  gained  by  the 
dactyl  which  in  those  verses  begins  each  fourth  line  (see  p.  429). 


342  MARRIAGE.  [l852 

pattern)  and  both  alike.”  On  their  return  home  to 
Chapel  House,  my  father  quotes  Catullus  as  he  enters 
the  door : 

“ O,  quid  solutis  est  beatius  curis ! 

Cum  mens  onus  reponit,  ac  peregrino 
Lahore  fessi  venimus  larem  ad  nostrum, 

Desideratoque  acquiescimus  lecto. 

Hoc  est,  quod  unum  est  pro  laboribus  tantis ! ” 

Soon  after  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  old 
friends  Mr  and  Mrs  Brookfield,  who  were  on  their  way 
to  Madeira: 

My  dear  William  and  Jane, 

I have  only  just  got  back  to  England  and 
heard  of  you  in  calling  on  Mrs  Taylor  at  Mortlake. 
Grieved  I was  to  hear  so  ill  an  account,  that  you  are 
forced  to  leave  England  and  that  I may  not  see  you 
again  for  a long  time;  yet  I do  not  know  why  I should 
write  except  to  tell  you  that  my  sympathies  go  with 
you  and  to  wish  that  you,  William,  may  soon  be  better 
and  that  God’s  blessing  may  be  with  you  on  the  winter 
seas,  and  in  the  fair  island  which  I have  so  often  longed 
to  see.  If  my  wife  could  stand  the  sea  nothing  would 
have  pleased  me  better  than  to  have  accompanied  you 
thither,  but  I hear  that  one  friend  at  least  has  preceded 
you,  and  is  there  now,  Stephen  Spring  Rice.  That  we 
may  soon  see  you  back  in  renewed  health  is  the  wish 
and  prayer  of 

Yours  affectionately, 

A.  Tennyson. 

Spedding  was  consulted  as  to  some  “ National  Songs 
for  Englishmen”  published  in  the  Examiner  in  1852, 
“ since 

Easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked  coasts.” 


NATIONAL  SONGS  FOR  ENGLISHMEN. 


343 


1852] 

He  replies : 

I will  send  £ 5 to  Coventry  Patmore  for  the  Rifles,  thinking 
that  the  more  noise  we  make  in  that  way  the  better,  and  the  more 
we  practise  the  less  likely  are  we  to  be  called  upon  to  perform. 
I answered  your  summons  to  the  Thatched  House  and  found 
a room  full  of  people  not  one  of  whom  I knew ; all  sufficiently 
zealous,  and  at  the  same  time  rational,  and  (so  far  as  the  pre- 
liminaries went)  of  one  mind.  I suppose  they  know  one  another, 
or  some  know  some;  and  as  there  seemed  to  be  no  want  of 
volunteers  for  the  Committee  and  Sub-committee  to  arrange 
details,  I thought  I might,  without  abandoning  my  country  in 
her  extremity,  leave  that  part  of  the  business  to  them  and  join 
some  club  when  it  is  organized.  I think  I could  hit  a Frenchman 
at  100  yards,  if  he  did  not  frighten  me. 

Forster  sent  for  me  yesterday  to  look  at  the  new  poems, 
which  I highly  approve,  and  by  no  means  allow  of  the  objection 
suggested  against  the  stanza1.  America  is  our  daughter  but 
the  men  of  America  are  our  sons.  Forster  wants  a name  for 
the  poet,  which  I think  very  desirable ; and  no  great  matter 
what  name  is  chosen  so  it  be  short  and  pronounceable,  Alfred, 
Arthur,  Merlin,  Tyrtaeus,  Edward  Ball,  Britannicus,  Honved, 
Hylax,  anything.  Amyntor  would  sound  well,  is  not  hackneyed, 
and  is  good  Greek  for  defender  or  protector. 

Your  note  though  dated  the  2nd  did  not  arrive  yesterday 
till  I had  gone  out. 


National  Songs  (1852). 

When  “ Britons,  guard  your  own,”  and  “ Hands  all 
round  ” were  written,  my  father  along  with  many  others 
regarded  France  under  Napoleon  as  a serious  menace 
to  the  peace  of  Europe.  Although  a passionate  patriot, 
and  a true  lover  of  England,  he  was  not  blind  to  her 
faults,  and  was  unprejudiced  and  cosmopolitan  in  seeing 
the  best  side  of  other  nations ; and  in  later  years  after 
the  Franco-German  war,  he  was  filled  with  admiration 
at  the  dignified  way  in  which  France  was  gradually 


1 About  America  (p.  346). 


344 


MARRIAGE. 


[l852 

gathering  herself  together.  He  rejoiced  whenever 
England  and  France  were  in  agreement,  and  worked 
together  harmoniously  for  the  good  of  the  world. 


Britons , guard  your  own . 

This  version  was  given  to  my  mother  many  years 
afterwards,  so  that  she  might  publish  it  with  her  musical 
setting. 

Rise,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not  dead; 

The  world’s  last  tempest  darkens  overhead: 

All  freedom  vanish’d  — 

The  true  men  banish’d  — 

He  triumphs ! maybe  we  shall  stand  alone ! 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across  Biscayan  tides, 

To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken  sides. 

Why  waste  they  yonder 
Their  idle  thunder? 

Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a foreign  throne? 

Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long  ago, 

We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength,  the  bow. 
Now  practise,  yeomen, 

Like  those  bowmen, 

Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  true  shafts  have  flown,. 

Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

Should  they  land  here  and  but  one  hour  prevail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear  the  tale ; 

No  man  to  bear  it, 

Swear  it!  We  swear  it! 

Although  we  fought  the  banded  world  alone, 

We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


1852] 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND!” 


345 


Hands  all  round1 ! 

First  drink  a health,  this  solemn  night, 

A health  to  England,  every  guest ; 

That  man’s  the  best  cosmopolite, 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 

May  Freedom’s  oak  for  ever  live 
With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day; 

That  man’s  the  true  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  moulder’d  branch  away. 

Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  hope  confound ! 

To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England  round  and  round. 

A health  to  Europe’s  honest  men ! 

Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrant  jails ! 

From  wrong’d  Poerio’s  noisome  den, 

From  iron’d  limbs  and  tortured  nails ! 

We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings, 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian  rods, 

We,  likewise,  have  our  evil  things; 

Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers  Gods, 

Yet  hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound ! 

To  Europe’s  better  health  we  drink,  my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England  round  and  round. 

What  health  to  France,  if  France  be  she, 

Whom  martial  prowess  only  charms  ? 

Yet  tell  her  — Better  to  be  free 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 

1 Feb.  9th,  1852.  I must  send  you  what  Landor  says  in  a note  this 
morning:  “‘Hands  all  round!  is  incomparably  the  best  (convivial)  lyric  in 
the  language,  though  Dryden’s  ‘Drinking  Song’  is  fine.” 

John  Forster  to  Mrs  Tennyson. 


346 


MARRIAGE. 


[l852 


Her  frantic  city’s  flashing  heats 

But  fire  to  blast  the  hopes  of  men. 

Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets? 

You  fools,  you’ll  want  them  all  again. 

Yet  hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound ! 

To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink,  my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England  round  and  round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 

We  know  thee  most,  we  love  thee  best, 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  ? 

Should  war’s  mad  blast  again  be  blown, 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone, 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 

Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound  ! 

To  our  great  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England  round  and  round. 

O rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 

When  war  against  our  freedom  springs ! 

0 speak  to  Europe  thro’  your  guns ! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 

You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 
That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools; 

Our  freedom’s  foemen  are  her  foes, 

She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules. 

Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound ! 

To  our  great  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my  friends, 
And  the  great  cause  of  freedom  round  and  round1. 

1 “ The  third  of  February,  1852,”  is  not  printed  here  because  it  was 
included  in  the  Poems  (ed.  1872).  Other  contributions  appeared  in  the 
Examiner , but  my  father  did  not  think  them  good  enough  to  be  reprinted. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

CHELTENHAM  AND  WHITBY  (1852). 

My  fathers  letter-diary  \ 

Cheltenham,  Jan.  i&th,  1852. 

Alan  Ker  has  taken  four  copies  of  my  Ode  “ My 
Lords  ” to  send  to  papers  here  and  there.  Mother 
was  delighted  beyond  measure  to  see  me,  making  me 
remorseful  that  I had  not  been  here  before.  Alan  and 
Mary  seem  well  and  hopeful : they  say  it  is  only  a fort- 
night’s steam  to  Jamaica  (where  he  is  appointed  a judge), 
and  they  will  not  take  a large  outfit  because  at  any 
time  they  can  have  things  from  England.  Dobson  says 
we  could  live  here  much  better  and  cheaper  than  at 
Twickenham.  I find  the  air  much  fresher. 

(. Apparently  answering  a query  as  to  Count  D' Or say2 .) 

Jan.  1852. 

Count  D’Orsay  is  a friend  of  mine,  co-godfather 
to  Dickens’  child  with  me.  He  is  Louis  Napoleon’s 

1 This  he  habitually  wrote  to  my  mother  when  absent  from  home. 

2 My  father  said  that  before  this  he  had  dined  with  Count  D’Orsay  and 
other  friends  at  John  Forster’s.  The  Count  was  a glorious,  handsome  fellow, 
generally  dressed  in  tight-fitting  blue  coat  with  gilt  buttons.  So  carried 
away  by  D’Orsay’s  splendour  was  Forster  that  he  was  heard  shouting  out 
above  the  hubbub  of  voices  to  his  servant  Henry:  “Good  heavens,  sir, 
butter  for  the  Count’s  flounders  ! ” 


347 


CHELTENHAM  AND  WHITBY. 


34S 


[l852 


intimate  friend  and  secretary,  and  moreover  I am  told  a 
man  who  has  wept  over  my  poems.  See  how  strangely 
things  are  connected.  Just  put  the  things  together. 
Wonderful  are  these  times,  and  no  one  knows  what  may 
arise  from  the  smallest  things.  I the  poet  of  England 
with  the  secretary  of  Louis  Napoleon  whom  I have 
abused. 


Cheltenham,  Jan.  22nd . 

A note  from  Charles  Weld  this  morning.  He  sent 
my  poem  to  the  Times , but  the  Times  ignores  it.  Alan 
Ker  says  it  is  not  their  custom  to  put  in  poems  except 
they  are  allowed  to  subscribe  the  author’s  name.  I 
have  told  him  to  try  the  Morning  Chronicle : he  seems 
for  Fraser , tho’  it  is  so  long  before  Fraser  comes  out 
that  my  poem  will  be  half  superannuated  like  the  musket. 
I see  that  here  and  there  people  are  really  beginning  to 
be  awake  to  their  danger  # # In  this  horrible  age 

of  blab  I can  scarce  trust  aright. 


Jan . 23rd. 

I have  been  out  every  day  dining.  The  readers  of 
the  Examiner  will  no  doubt  guess  the  authorship  from 
knowing  Forster’s  friendship  for  me.  The  military  letters 
in  the  Times  are  very  interesting.  The  hills  here  have 
fine  lights  on  them  as  seen  from  my  windows.  John 
Rashdall  wants  us  to  go  and  spend  three  weeks  with 
him  at  Malvern. 


Yowl,  July  ^th,  1852. 

Slept  at  Spedding’s  where  I found  they  expected 
me.  Started  this  morning  1 1 a.m.  Hay  fever  atrocious 
with  irritation  of  railway,  nearly  drove  me  crazed,  but 
could  not  complain,  the  other  only  occupant  of  the 
carriage  having  a curiously  split  shoe  for  his  better  ease, 


1852] 


YORK  AND  WHITBY. 


349 


and  his  eyes  and  teeth  in  a glare  at  me  with  pain  of  gout 
the  whole  way,  and  finally  helped  out  by  his  servant, 
going  to  drink  Harrogate  waters.  Came  here  to  the 
Black  Swan,  ordered  dinner,  went  out  and  bought  weed, 
having  left  mine  at  Spedding’s  with  gloves  (ay  me ! ). 
Enquired  of  tobacconist  state  of  parties  here,  “ Never 
was  anything  so  satisfactory,  all  purity  of  Election,  no 
row,  no  drunkenness,  Mr  Vincent  will  come  in  without 
any  bother.”  While  he  was  yet  speaking  arose  a row,  in- 
numerable mob  raging,  housekeepers  all  down  the  street 
rushed  out  with  window-shutters  to  prevent  windows  being 
broken.  My  dinner  waiting  for  me,  I having  to  plunge 
thro’  mob  to  get  at  it,  essayed  the  fringes  of  the  crowd, 
very  dense  nucleus  of  enormous  brawl  somewhere  within. 
Presently  the  glazed  hats  of  policemen,  like  sunshine 
striking  here  and  there  at  the  breaking  up  of  a storm, 
showed  me  an  issue  of  hope.  I plunged  through  in  the 
wake  of  the  bluecoats  and  got  home.  To-morrow  to 
Whitby.  Vincent  after  all  not  returned.  When  I got 
to  Waterloo  the  roses  had  snapt  off  short  and  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  the  carriage.  The  porter  opened  the  door, 
picked  up  one,  snuffed  at  it  with  vast  satisfaction,  and 
never  so  much  as  “ by  your  leave.” 


5,  North  Terrace,  West  Cliff,  Whitby, 
July  8 th,  1852. 


I am  set  down  here  for  a week  at  least  in  lodgings. 
It  is  rather  a fine  place,  a river  running  into  the  sea 
between  precipices,  on  one  side  new  buildings  and  a very 
handsome  royal  hotel  belonging  to  Hudson  the  railway 
king,  on  the  other  at  the  very  top  a gaunt  old  Abbey, 
and  older  parish  Church  hanging  over  the  town  amid 
hundreds  of  white  gravestones  that  looked  to  my  eye 
something  like  clothes  laid  out  to  dry.  Moreover  there 


350  CHELTENHAM  AND  WHITBY.  [l852 

is  the  crackiness  of  an  election  going  on  and  lots  of  pink 
and  blue  flags,  and  insane  northland  boatmen  of  Danish 
breed,  who  meet  and  bang  each  other  for  the  love  of 
liberty,  foolish  fellows.  In  the  midst  of  the  row  yester- 
day came  a funeral  followed  by  weeping  mourners,  a 
great  hearse,  plumes  nodding  and  mourning  coach,  and 
the  gaunt  old  Abbey  looked  down  with  its  hollow  eyes 
on  the  life  and  death,  the  drunkenness  and  the  political 
fury,  rather  ironically  as  it  seemed  to  me,  only  that  it 
was  too  old  to  have  much  feeling  left  about  anything. 
No  bathing  men  were  to  be  had,  so  I e’en  walked  into 
the  sea  by  myself  and  had  a very  decent  bathe.  Hay 
fever  was  much  better  yesterday  and  is  bad  again  this 
morning.  I could  not  write  yesterday  for  I came  in  after 
the  post  had  started  by  a very  pretty  rail  which  curves 
like  a common  road  between  great  wolds,  the  Esk, 
which  is  the  stream  that  debouches  here,  running  below. 
Then  we  really  went  down  a considerable  hill  with  a 
rope.  The  same  thing  I think  occurs  at  Liege,  but  this 
seemed  to  me  much  steeper.  I am  told  there  are  very 
fine  views  in  the  neighbourhood,  though  most  probably 
I shall  not  get  out  far  enough  to  see  them  as  it  is  pesti- 
lent hot. 


Whitby,  July  i $th. 

I want  to  go  to  Redcliffe  Scar  which  old  Wordsworth 
once  told  me  of,  or  perhaps  to  Bolton  Abbey.  I think 
it  a great  pity  that  your  “ Sweet  and  low  ” hadn’t  the 
start  of  all  these  musical  jottings.  I have  had  two  very 
good  days  coasting,  I mean  walking  along  on  and  under 
the  cliffs.  Very  singular  they  are  with  great  bivalve 
shells  sticking  out  of  them.  They  are  made  of  a great 
dark  slate-coloured  shale  (is  it  to  be  called  ?)  that  comes 
showering  down  ever  and  anon  from  a great  height ; and 
on  the  hard  flat  rock  which  makes  the  beach  on  one  side 
of  the  town  (for  on  the  other  side  are  sands),  you  see 


1852] 


AN  OLD  SMUGGLER. 


351 


beautiful  little  ammonites  which  you  stoop  to  pick  up 
but  find  them  part  of  the  solid  rock.  You  know  these 
are  the  snakes  which  St  Hilda  drove  over  the  cliff  and 
falling  they  lost  their  heads,  and  she  changed  them  into 
stone.  I found  a strange  fish  on  the  shore  with  rainbows 
about  its  wild  staring  eyes,  enclosed  in  a sort  of  sack  with 
long  tentacula  beautifully  coloured,  quite  dead,  but  when 
I took  it  up  by  the  tail  it  spotted  all  the  sand  underneath 
with  great  drops  of  ink,  so  I suppose  it  was  a kind  of 
cuttle-fish.  I found  too  a pale  pink  orchis  on  the  sea 
bank  and  a pink  vetch,  a low  sort  of  shrub  with  here  and 
there  a thorn.  I am  reading  lots  of  novels.  The  worst  is 
they  do  not  last  longer  than  the  day.  I am  such  a fierce 
reader  I think  I have  had  pretty  well  my  quantum  suff.  : 
Venables’  anecdotes  are  very  interesting  indeed.  One 
cannot  help  wishing  that  such  a man  as  Gladstone  may 
come  to  sit  on  the  top  branch  of  the  tree. 


Whitby  , July  19th. 

I have  ordered  a carriage  and  am  going  to  see  Lord 
Normanby’s  park  near  here,  tho’  I am  half  afraid  of  it, 
a carriage  so  excites  my  hay  fever.  I met  an  old 
smuggler  on  the  coast  yesterday  who  had  been  in  Lord 
N.’s  service  (not  as  smuggler  of  course!),  and  he  took 
me  for  Lord  Normanby  at  first,  a likeness  I have  been 
told  of  more  than  once  before.  I got  into  conversation 
with  him  and  I am  going  to  call  for  him  to-day  and  he 
is  to  show  me  the  caves  and  holes  in  the  coast  where 
they  used  to  land  their  kegs.  I am  going  from  here 
to-morrow,  I think  I shall  go  by  the  Scarboro’  packet 
but  I am  not  certain.  I shall  most  likely  pop  down  on 
Charles  at  Grasby,  but  if  I go  to  Scarboro’  I hardly 
think  I shall  go  out  of  my  way  again  to  Leeds.  I shall 
like  much  to  see  the  Brownings  again,  Mrs  B.  par- 
ticularly. I suppose  when  I come  back  the  Lushingtons 


352  CHELTENHAM  AND  WHITBY.  [l852 

will  want  me  to  spend  some  days  at  Park  House.  I 
have  seen  no  houses  here  to  be  sold,  but  then  I have 
not  looked  out  for  them.  A tailor  who  sewed  me  on 
some  buttons,  told  me  Whitby  was  remarkable  for 
longevity,  the  healthiest  place  in  England  except  some 
place  (he  said)  near  Cheltenham,  he  had  forgotten  the 
name.  I dare  say  he  meant  Malvern. 


GRASBY,y^  2 2 nd. 

I came  by  the  packet  boat  to  Scarborough  where  I 
stopt  the  night  and  came  on  here  yesterday.  The  train 
only  stopt  at  Moortown,  and  I was  obliged  to  walk 
through  the  fields  to  Grasby  when  I admired  the  deep 
long-stemmed  Lincolnshire  wheat  which  I had  not  seen 
for  many  a day. 

I find  Charles  and  Louisa  very  well,  only  Charles 
rather  low  as  it  seems  to  me.  It  is  a nice  little  place 
they  have  and  the  country  really  looks  pretty  at  this 
time  of  year.  I shall  stop  a few  days. 

Grasby,  July  27  th. 

Pray  take  drives  every  day.  The  school  children 
have  a feast  here  to-morrow  for  which  I am  going  to 
stay.  They  run  in  sacks  and  do  all  manner  of  queer 
things.  Our  parson-party  went  off  well.  Agnes  I 
suppose  will  be  triumphant  to-morrow.  I think  when 
I leave  here  I shall  go  round  by  Grimsby  to  see  the  new 
docks  and  perhaps  get  a bathe  at  Cleethorpes. 

We  went  over  to  drink  tea  the  other  afternoon  with 
Mr  Maclean,  the  Vicar  of  Caistor,  where  I made  fun 
for  the  children,  and  saw  a young  cuckoo  which  a boy 
had  found  in  a sparrow’s  nest,  a rather  rare  circumstance 
so  late  in  July;  but  the  boy  had  had  him  for  three  weeks 
and  fed  him  with  worms.  He  was  a good  deal  duskier 
than  the  adult  cuckoo,  and  with  a white  band  on  his 
head  and  very  voracious,  would  have  swallowed  anything. 


1862] 


VISITS  CROWLAND  ABBEY. 


353 


Hull,  July  31^/. 

I am  going  out  of  the  way  to  see  Crowland  Abbey 
and  maybe  shall  stop  a day  or  so  there.  I write  this 
in  vast  haste  at  the  Mason  Arms,  Louth.  Daddy 1 drove 
me  over  last  night  to  Grimsby  to  see  the  new  dock,  truly 
a great  work. 

When  he  reached  home,  Monckton  Milnes  asked  him 
to  dinner.  He  wrote : 

My  dear  Milnes, 

I have  never  dined  in  town  (except  once 
with  Hallam  en  famille  when  I met  him  by  chance  in 
Lear  the  painter’s  rooms  looking  at  his  picture  of  the 
Syracusan  Quarries 2,  and  once  or  twice  with  my  brother- 
in-law  en  famille  also)  since  I dined  with  you,  Heaven 
knows  how  long  ago,  and  met  Doyle  and  others.  I have 
given  up  dining  out  and  am  about  to  retire  into  utter 
solitude  in  some  country  house,  but  if  you  feel  aggrieved 
at  sending  one  invitation  after  another  to  me,  unaccepted, 
I will  come.  You  have  not  mentioned  your  hour  6?  7? 
8 ? let  me  know.  Do  not  bother  yourself  about  giving 
me  a bed,  I can  get  one  (and  my  own  way  too  in  the 
matter  of  smoke)  better  at  Spedding’s.  Really  I am  very 
unwell  and,  tho’  hay  fever  sometimes  lets  me  alone  for  a 
whole  day  together,  yet  it  sometimes  makes  me  quite 
unfit  to  sit  at  table.  Send  me  a line  to  say  what  your 
hour  is  and  what  Maurice’s  hour  is  and  I will  see  if  1 
can  come  in  time  for  Maurice. 

Ever  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 


1 Henry  Sellwood. 

2 Now  in  the  drawing-room  at  Farringford. 

t.  1.  23 


354 


CHELTENHAM  AND  WHITBY. 


[l852 


To  James  Spedding . 


Dear  J.  S. 

Can  you  let  me  have  your  attic  next  Satur- 
day night  and  Sunday?  I am  going  to  dine  with  Milnes 
on  Sunday,  he  has  offered  me  a bed  but  I am  more  at 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn  (smoking-room  I should  say) 
with  you. 

# # # # # 

Go  and  see  (and  having  seen,  if  you  can  interest 
yourself  in)  Thomas  Woolner’s  design  for  the  W.  W.1 
Westminster  monument.  I am  told  it  is  good  and  I 
promised  to  say  a good  word  for  him. 

Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 

1 Wordsworth,  now  in  the  drawing-room  at  Farringford. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TWICKENHAM  (1852-53). 

Early  in  1852  my  father  and  mother  went  on  a visit 
to  one  of  his  old  College  friends,  Mr.  Rashdall  the  cler- 
gyman of  Malvern,  and  met  the  Carlyles  and  Sydney 
Dobell 1.  Rashdall  was  a man  so  beloved  by  his  parish- 
ioners, and  so  simple  and  direct  in  his  language  from  the 
pulpit,  that  he  had  emptied  the  Dissenting  Chapels  for 
miles  round.  He  would  often  hold  his  Church  services 
in  the  fields.  A flowery  record  of  Spring  follows  in  my 
mother’s  journal,  about  the  beauty  of  the  daffodils,  wood 
anemones,  primroses,  and  violets;  the  pear  trees  through- 
out the  country  in  bloom  “ like  springing  and  falling 
fountains.”  While  they  were  there  my  father  read 
Dr  Wordsworth’s  Apocalypse  to  my  mother.  On  their 
return  to  Twickenham,  he  visited  the  Exhibition,  and  was 
delighted  with  Millais’  “Ophelia”  and  “The  Huguenot,” 
but  liked  “The  Huguenot”  much  the  best.  They  came 
to  know  the  Peels  at  Marble  Hill,  and  Archibald  Peel 
(the  General’s  son)  pointed  out  the  avenue  in  which  Sir 
Walter  Scott  placed  the  interview  between  Jeanie  Deans 
and  Queen  Caroline.  Happy  days  were  spent  in  the 

1 Mr  Briton  Riviere  writes  to  me : u I asked  my  brother-in-law,  Sydney 
Dobell,  to  describe  your  father  to  me,  and  he  said : ‘ If  he  were  pointed  out 
to  you  as  the  man  who  had  written  the  Iliad,  you  would  answer,  “ I can  well 
believe  it.” 1,1 


355 


356 


TWICKENHAM. 


[l852 

little  Twickenham  garden,  my  father  reading  aloud  pas- 
sages of  any  book  which  struck  him.  Layard’s  Nineveh 
and  Herschel’s  Astronomy  were  read  at  this  time. 
Numerous  friends  called  from  London:  Spedding,  Ven- 
ables, Patmore,  Edmund  and  Franklin  Lushington, 
Temple,  Palgrave,  Jowett,  the  Welds  and  others.  He 
writes,  “lots  of  callers,  I expect  I shall  be  inundated.” 
The  Diary  continues,  “ Hallam  born  on  the  nth  of 
August.” 

To  John  Forster . 

August  iithy  1852. 

My  dear  John  Forster, 

I did  not  tell  you  of  my  marriage  which 
you  took  rather  in  dudgeon.  Now  I will  tell  you  of  the 
birth  of  a little  son  this  day.  I have  seen  beautiful 
things  in  my  life,  but  I never  saw  anything  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  mother’s  face  as  she  lay  by  the  young  child 
an  hour  or  two  after,  or  heard  anything  sweeter  than 
the  little  lamblike  bleat  of  the  young  one.  I had  fancied 
that  children  after  birth  had  been  all  shriek  and  roar; 
but  he  gave  out  a little  note  of  satisfaction  every  now 
and  then,  as  he  lay  by  his  mother,  which  was  the  most 
pathetic  sound  in  its  helplessness  I ever  listened  to. 
You  see  I talk  almost  like  a bachelor,  yet  unused  to 
these  things : but  you  — I don’t  hear  good  reports  of 
you.  You  should  have  been  better  by  this.  Get  better 
quickly  if  you  would  have  me  be  as  I always  am 

Yours  most  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 

My  dear  John  Forster, 

I have  only  time  for  one  word  of  bulletin. 
Everything,  I believe,  is  going  on  well,  tho’  the  mother 
suffers  from  an  almost  total  want  of  sleep,  and  the  little 


BIRTH  OF  A SON. 


357 


1852] 

monster  does  anything  but  what  Hamlet  says  Osric  did 
in  his  nursery-days.  I found  him  lying  alone  on  the 
third  day  of  his  life,  and,  while  I was  looking  at  him, 
I saw  him  looking  at  me  with  such  apparently  earnest, 
wide-open  eyes,  I felt  as  awe-struck  as  if  I had  seen  a 
spirit.  I hope  you  are  mending. 

God  bless  you,  A.  Tennyson. 


To  Mrs  Browning . 

Chapel  House,  Twickenham, 

August  ii  thf  1852. 

My  dear  Mrs  Browning, 

I wrote  to  you  once  before  this  morning. 
I now  write  again  to  tell  you  what  I am  sure  your 
woman’s  and  poet’s  heart  will  rejoice  in,  that  my  wife 
was  delivered  of  a fine  boy  at  9.30  a.m.  this  day,  and 
that  both  she  and  the  child  are  doing  well.  I never 
saw  any  face  so  radiant  with  all  high  and  sweet  ex- 
pression as  hers  when  I saw  her  some  time  after. 

Ever  yours  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 

Mrs  Browning’s  reply  was  the  first  congratulatory 
letter. 


My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 


58  Welbeck  Street, 
Wednesday  night. 
August  12  thy  1852. 


Thank  you  and  congratulate  you  indeed  from  my 
heart.  May  God  bless  you  all  three. 

Robert  said,  when  I was  writing  the  note  of  enquiry  which 
has  gone  to  the  post,  “Tell  him  we  will  hope  still  for  a joyful 
meeting,”  but  I had  not  courage  at  that  moment  of  crisis  to 
mention  a word  of  “ joy.” 

Now  I may,  thank  God.  Will  you  say  to  dear  Mrs  Tennyson 


353 


TWICKENHAM. 


[l852 

when  she  is  able  to  think  of  anything  so  far  off  as  a friend,  how 
deeply  I sympathise  in  her  happiness,  with  the  memory  of  all 
that  ecstasy  as  I felt  it  myself,  still  thrilling  through  me  ? 

And  there  are  barbarians  in  the  world  who  dare  to  call  the 
new  little  creatures  not  pretty,  ugly  even ! ! 

Will  you  after  a day  or  two  send  me  a “ line  of  bulletin  ” ? 
See  how  I encroach  upon  your  kindness ! 

Most  truly  yours, 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

P.S.  by  Robert  Browning. 

I can’t  help  saying  too,  how  happy  I am  in  your  happiness 
and  in  the  assurance  that  it  is  greater  than  even  you  can  quite 
know  yet.  God  bless,  dear  Tennyson,  you  and  all  yours. 

R.  B. 

Saturday. 

My  dear  Mrs  Browning, 

Here  is  one  word  of  bulletin  as  you  desired. 

All  is  doing  as  well  as  can  be. 

To  this  one  word,  let  me  add  another,  that  is  how 
very  grateful  your  little  note  and  Browning’s  epilogue 
made  me.  I began  to  read  it  to  my  wife  but  could  not 
get  on  with  it,  so  I put  it  away  by  her  bedside,  and  she 
shall  read  it  as  soon  as  she  reads  anything. 

Ever  yours  and  your  husband’s, 

A.  Tennyson. 

“ From  the  first,”  my  mother  writes,  “Alfred  watched 
Hallam  with  interest ; some  of  his  acquaintances  would 
have  smiled  to  see  him  racing  up  and  down  stairs  and 
dandling  the  baby  in  his  arms.”  The  poem  “ Out  of 
the  Deep  ” was  begun  then  and  finished  long  afterwards. 
The  christening  was  at  Twickenham,  the  godfathers 
being  Henry  Hallam  and  F.  D.  Maurice. 


1852] 


THE  GODFATHERS. 


359 


From  Henry  Hallam. 

Wilton  Crescent,  August  25 th,  1852. 

My  dear  Alfred  Tennyson, 

I returned  from  a three  weeks’  tour  in  France  late 
last  night  Of  your  paternal  dignity,  lately  accrued,  I had  had 
no  information.  This  is  my  excuse  for  delay  in  acknowledging 
your  letters  of  the  16th  and  in  expressing  at  once  my  sincere 
congratulations  on  the  event,  and  my  most  willing  acceptance 
of  the  office  which  you  desire  me  to  undertake.  That  the  names 
of  Hallam  and  Tennyson  should  be  united  in  the  person  of  this 
infant  will  be  to  me  a gratifying  reflection  for  the  remainder  of 
my  days.  You  have  already  made  those  names  indissoluble. 
I beg  you  to  give  my  kind  regards  to  Mrs  A.  Tennyson.  My 
daughter  is  at  her  own  house  at  Hayes  in  Kent ; I shall  soon 
go  down. 

Yours  most  truly,  H.  Hallam. 


From  Rev . F.  D.  Maurice . 

Bodington  Rectory,  nr.  Shrewsbury, 
August  30 thy  1852. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  the  pleasure  which 
your  note  of  this  morning  caused  me.  It  does  not  look  like 
the  proper  feeling  of  responsibility  of  the  office  with  which  the 
kindness  of  Mrs  Tennyson  and  you  would  invest  me,  to  have 
experienced  such  delight,  and  I am  afraid  you  will  think  very 
differently  and  much  more  truly  of  my  Christianity  when  you 
hear  of  it.  But  I have  so  very  much  to  thank  you  for,  especially 
of  late  years  since  I have  known  your  poetry  better  and  I hope 
I have  been  somewhat  more  in  a condition  to  learn  from  it,  that 
I cannot  say  how  thankful  I feel  to  you  for  wishing  that  I should 
stand  in  any  nearer  and  more  personal  relation  to  you.  I beg 
you  to  express  to  Mrs  Tennyson  how  very  much  I value  this 
proof  of  her  confidence  and  how  much  I hope  I may  not  prove 
utterly  unworthy  of  it. 


Very  truly  yours,  F.  D.  Maurice. 


360 


TWICKENHAM. 


[l852 


From  Mrs  Browning . 

58  Welbeck  Street,  Sept . 1852. 

My  dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 

It  is  delightful  always  to  have  kind  words,  most 
delightful  to  have  them  from  you. 

We  had  resolved  on  leaving  England  on  the  fifth,  but  you 
offer  us  an  irresistible  motive  for  staying,  in  spite  of  fogs  and 
cold.  So  you  will  see  us  on  Tuesday,  and  we  shall  come  in  time 
for  the  ceremony : we  would  not  miss  the  christening  for  the  world. 

And  I must  tell  you,  a baby  has  screamed  in  this  house  ever 
since  we  have  been  in  England,  much  to  my  sympathy.. .only, 
as  the  child  grows  fatter  and  fatter  I have  come  to  consider  the 
screaming  to  be  a sign  of  prosperity.  Still,  it  is  very  painful 
to  hear  a young  child : when  he  cried  I was  always  near  crying 
myself.  Only  the  fact  is  that  these  little  creatures  will  make 
much  ado  about  nothing  sometimes,  and  we  are  wrong  in  reading 
their  ills  too  large  through  our  imagination.  I hope  to  find  your 
darling  well  and  serene  on  Tuesday,  and  yourself  stronger  than 
you  seem  to  be  now. 

Let  me  be  (why  not  ?) 

Affectionately  yours  always, 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

From  Charles  Dickens . 

Dover,  1st  Oct.  1852. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

I have  received  your  note  here  only  to-day.  It 
would  have  given  me  the  heartiest  pleasure  to  have  welcomed 
a young  Tennyson  to  this  breathing  world  wherein  he  is  much 
wanted,  on  so  good  an  occasion  as  his  christening,  but  that  I 
have  engaged  to  go  to  Boulogne  on  Sunday  for  a fortnight.  I 
shall  drink  his  health  on  the  fifth. 

As  your  letter  bears  no  address  and  as  I cannot  call  your 
address  to  mind,  I send  this  to  Moxon’s  care. 

Ever  yours,  Charles  Dickens. 


1852] 


THE  CHRISTENING. 


361 


From  Frederick  Tennyson . 

Villa  Torregiani,  1852. 

Having  duly  received  the  bulletins  announcing  an  autumnal 
shoot  of  the  old  Laurel  in  the  shape  of  Hallam  Tennyson 
(is  this  his  only  name  ?)  I write  not  only  to  wish  you  joy  of 
your  new  acquisition  but  to  have  more  particulars  from  you  on 
that  all  engrossing  subject.  Is  he  to  turn  out  a dove  or  an  eagle  ? 
Has  he  a hawking  eye  and  the  aquiline  supremacy  of  the  Caesars 
in  his  nose  or  is  there  a classical  type  of  head,  a Belvederino 
with  strong  ideality?  Will  the  pencils  of  the  rays  of  the  ances- 
tral Intellectualities  converge  into  a focus  in  the  concavity  of  his 
cranium  and  be  reflected  therefrom  in  redoubled  warmth  and 
light,  or  will  they  neutralize  one  another  and  become  common 
sense,  a very  good  thing?  You  will  probably  be  better  enabled 
to  answer  these  questions  some  ten  years  hence  than  now,  but 
it  is  astonishing  how  early  children  begin  to  exhibit  distinctive 
qualities.  In  my  three  little  girls  I fancy  I detect  strong 
marks  of  Individualities. 

Your  affectionate  brother,  F.  T. 

There  was  some  question  as  to  the  name,  whether  it 
should  be  Arthur  or  Hallam.  My  father  called  out  in 
a clear  voice,  that  rang  through  the  church,  “ Hallam,” 
which  pleased  Henry  Hallam,  though  jokingly  he  said 
in  London : “ They  would  not  name  him  Alfred  lest  he 
should  turn  out  a fool,  and  so  they  named  him  ‘ Hallam.’  ” 
Thinking  that  in  future  it  would  be  an  interesting  link 
with  a former  age  \ his  parents  took  him  with  them  to 
old  Samuel  Rogers,  and  Rogers,  bowing  to  my  mother, 
said  in  his  courtly  and  diplomatic  way,  “ Mrs  Tennyson, 
I made  one  great  mistake  in  my  life,  I never  married.” 
In  November  was  the  burial  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington. The  Ode  was  published  on  the  morning  of 

1 Rogers,  my  father  told  me,  had  had  his  hand  on  Dr  Johnson’s  knocker, 
but  was  too  shy  to  knock  and  had  run  away  without  seeing  the  great  man. 


TWICKENHAM. 


362 


[l852- 


the  funeral,  but  some  additions  were  made  to  it  after- 
wards \ 

My  father  wrote : Nov.  i&tk.  “Have  seen  the  pro- 
cession at  the  Duke  of  Wellington’s  funeral:  very  fine; 
hope  to  see  the  interior  of  St  Paul’s  before  I leave.” 
To  Edward  Fitzgerald  he  observed:  “At  the  funeral  I 
was  struck  with  the  look  of  sober  manhood  in  the  British 
soldier.”  “ In  the  midst  of  the  solemn  silence,”  said  my 
father,  “ Magdalene  Brookfield  whispered  to  her  mother 
when  she  saw  the  Duke’s  boots  carried  by  his  charger, 
‘ Mama,  when  I am  dead  shall  I be  that  ? ’ meaning  the 
boots.” 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  while  the  Ode  was 
being  abused  in  all  directions  by  the  Press  my  father 
wrote  thus  to  his  publishers : “ If  you  lose  by  the 
Ode,  I will  not  consent  to  accept  the  whole  sum  of 
^200,  which  you  offered  me.  I consider  it  quite  a 
sufficient  loss  if  you  do  not  gain  by  it.” 

Henry  Taylor  wrote: 


Mortlake,  Nov.  17 th,  1852. 

I have  read  your  ode  (“Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington”), 
and  I believe  that  many  thousands  at  present,  and  that  many 
hundreds  of  thousands  in  future  times,  will  feel  about  it  as 
I do,  or  with  a yet  stronger  and  deeper  feeling ; and  I am  sure 
that  every  one  will  feel  about  it  according  to  his  capacity  of 
feeling  what  is  great  and  true.  It  has  a greatness  worthy  of 
its  theme  and  an  absolute  simplicity  and  truth,  with  all  the 
poetic  passion  of  your  nature  moving  beneath. 

And  here  is  my  father’s  reply : 

Seaford  House,  Seaford, 

Nov.  2 3rd,  1852. 

Thanks,  thanks  ! I have  just  returned  from  Reading 
and  found  your  letter.  In  the  all  but  universal  depre- 

1 The  Ode  was  written  in  the  “ Green  Room,”  Chapel  House,  Twickenham. 


LETTER  TO  DR  APPLEBY  STEPHENSON. 


363 


1853] 

ciation  of  my  ode  by  the  Press,  the  prompt  and  hearty 
appreciation  of  it  by  a man  as  true  as  the  Duke  himself 
is  doubly  grateful. 

Ever,  my  dear  Taylor,  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 

This  autumn  the  Twickenham  meadows  were  so 
much  flooded  that  my  father  and  mother  moved  to  Sea- 
ford,  Brighton  and  Farnham.  At  the  last  place  Charles 
Kingsley  came  to  see  them,  fresh  and  vivacious  as  ever. 

At  the  beginning  of  next  year  (1853)  my  father  was 
asked  whether  he  would  allow  himself  to  be  nominated 
as  Rector  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  He  replied: 

To  Appleby  Stephenson , M.D. 

London,  March  1st,  1853. 

Sir, 

Your  letter  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  February 
has  reached  me  only  this  morning.  I trust  that  yourself 
and  those  other  gentlemen,  whom  you  speak  of  as 
being  willing  to  give  their  vote  for  me  as  President 
of  your  University,  will  forgive  me  when  I say  that 
however  gratefully  sensible  of  the  honour  intended  me, 
I must  beg  leave  with  many  thanks  to  decline  it.  I 
could  neither  undertake  to  come  to  Edinboro’  nor  to 
deliver  an  inaugural  address  at  the  time  specified.  You 
will  doubtless  find  another  and  worthier  than  myself  to 
fill  this  office. 

I am,  Sir,  your  obliged  and  obedient  servant, 

A.  Tennyson. 


My  father  then  went  off  house-hunting  and  wrote 
from  Farnham  to  my  mother: 


Farnham. 


“ I saw  Elstead  Lodge  yesterday,  dry  soil  but  quite 
flat,  with  view  of  distant  hills,  and  one  hill  very  near: 


364 


TWICKENHAM. 


[l853 

splendid  lawn  but  house  looking  north.  The  park  here 
is  delicious  and  the  little  house  to  be  sold  has  a large 

garden As  for  the  house,  you  would  find  the  rooms 

too  low.  If  I buy,  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  building 
two  good  additional  rooms.  I saw  the  lawyer  here  and 
he  has  given  me  the  refusal.  It  is  quite  retired,  just 
under  the  Bishop’s  palace.  What  an  air  after  Twicken- 
ham ! I walked  over  to  Hale  and  looked  into  the 
old  premises  V’ 

In  the  summer  my  father  and  mother  took  a tour 
to  York2,  Whitby,  Redcar,  Richmond  and  Grasby.  He 
left  her  at  Richmond  to  return  to  Grasby,  and  went  with 
Palgrave  to  Glasgow.  From  Glasgow  the  change  was 
very  pleasant  when  the  travellers  found  themselves  at 
Carstairs,  the  home  of  my  father’s  old  college  friend, 
Robert  Monteith.  “ The  Daisy  ” was  written  in  Edin- 
burgh ; and  “To  Edward  Lear,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece ” 
was  printed  at  this  time  among  the  collected  poems. 

Farringford 3. 

Later  my  father  paid  a visit  to  Bonchurch.  There 
he  heard  of  Farringford  as  a place  that  might  possibly 
be  suitable  for  his  home,  as  it  was  beautiful  and  far 

1 Where  my  grandfather,  Henry  Sellwood,  lived  with  my  mother  after 
leaving  Horncastle. 

2 My  father  wrote  from  Tait’s  Hotel,  July  29th,  1853:  “A  Roman 
epitaph  in  the  Museum  at  York  touched  me : 

D.  M.  Simpliciae  Florentine 
Anime  innocentissime 
Que  vixit  menses  decern. 

Felicius  Simplex  Pater  Fecit. 

Leg.  vi.  v.” 

3 The  name  Farringford  is  old.  I have  in  my  possession  deeds  of 
the  fourteenth  century  signed  by  Walter  de  Ferringford.  Prior’s  Manor, 
attached  to  Farringford,  belonged  to  the  Abbey  of  Lyra  in  Normandy. 
Many  of  the  fields  retain  the  old  names  of  that  time,  the  Prior’s  Field, 
Maiden’s  Croft  (dedicated  to  the  Virgin  Mary),  the  Clerks’  Hill,  Abraham’s 
Mead,  etc. 


From  a Painting  by  Richard  Doyle 


FARRINGFORD. 


365 


1853] 

from  the  haunts  of  men.  “ If  society  were  what  it  is 
not,”  wrote  Lady  Taylor  to  Aubrey  de  Vere,  “it  might 
be  well  to  give  up  something  for  it.”  Society  being 
what  it  is,  he  determined  to  quit  Twickenham  and  to 
live  a country  life  of  earnest  work,  only  seeing  his 
many  friends  from  time  to  time.  When  my  mother 
and  he  went  down  to  look  at  Farringford,  they  crossed 
the  Solent  in  a rowing  boat  on  a still  November  evening, 
and  “ One  dark  heron  flew  over  the  sea,  backed  by  a 
daffodil  sky.” 

Next  day,  as  they  gazed  from  the  drawing-room 
window  out  through  the  distant  wreath  of  trees  towards 
a sea  of  Mediterranean  blue,  with  rosy  capes  beyond,  the 
down  on  the  left  rising  above  the  foreground  of  undu- 
lating park,  golden-leaved  elms  and  chestnuts,  and  red- 
stemmed pines,  they  agreed  that  they  must  if  possible 
have  that  view  to  live  with. 

Nov . 14^/z,  1853.  My  father  writes:  “I  wrote  on 
Friday  to  accept 1 the  house  (Farringford),  I also  wrote 
to-day  to  Moxon  to  advance  one  thousand  pounds,  four 
hundred  pounds  he  owes  me,  the  odd  six  hundred  to 
be  paid  if  he  will  in  March  when  I get  my  moneys  in. 
Why  I did  it  ? Because  by  buying  safe  debentures  in 
the  East  Lincolnshire  Line  for  two  thousand  five  hundred 
pounds,  with  that  and  five  hundred2  a year  I think  we 
ought  to  get  on.. .Venables  and  Chapman  agree  in  the 
propriety  of  the  investment.  Seymour  has  sent  no 
papers  yet.  I don’t  know  what  is  to  be  done  with 
Laurence:  it  would  be  in  the  highest  degree  inconvenient 
for  me  to  come  back  from  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  sit  for 
him.  Fitz  would,  I have  no  doubt,  let  him  have  his 
old  sketch  of  me.” 

Accordingly  on  November  the  24th,  having  taken 
the  house  on  trial,  they  left  Twickenham,  and  on  the 


1 To  lease  the  house  with  the  option  of  buying  it. 

2 The  sum  which  since  1850  he  had  made  from  his  books. 


366 


TWICKENHAM. 


[l853 

25th  entered  into  possession  of  Farringford,  which  was 
to  be  a home  to  them  for  forty  years,  and  where  some 
of  my  father’s  best-known  works  were  written.  Mrs 
Thackeray  Ritchie  describes  the  place  in  her  pleasant 
Records , as  she  saw  it  when  it  had  become  their  own. 

For  the  first  time  I stayed  in  the  Island,  and  with  the  people 
who  were  dwelling  there,  and  walked  with  Tennyson  along 
High  Down,  treading  the  turf,  listening  to  his  talk,  while  the 
gulls  came  sideways,  flashing  their  white  breasts  against  the 
edge  of  the  cliffs  and  the  Poet’s  cloak  flapped  time  to  the  gusts 
of  the  west  wind.  The  house  at  Farringford  itself  seemed  like 
a charmed  palace,  with  green  walls  without,  and  speaking  walls 
within.  There  hung  Dante  with  his  solemn  nose  and  wreath ; 
Italy  gleamed  over  the  doorways ; friends’  faces  lined  the  pas- 
sages, books  filled  the  shelves,  and  a glow  of  crimson  was 
everywhere ; the  oriel  drawing-room  window  was  full  of  green 
and  golden  leaves,  of  the  sound  of  birds  and  of  the  distant  sea. 

My  father  and  mother  settled  to  a country  life  at  once, 
looking  after  their  little  farm,  and  tending  the  poor  and 
sick  of  the  village.  In  the  afternoons  they  swept  up 
leaves,  mowed  the  grass,  gravelled  the  walks,  and  he 
built  what  he  called  “ a bower  of  rushes  ” in  the  kitchen 
garden.  The  primroses  and  snowdrops  and  other  flowers 
were  a constant  delight,  and  he  began  a flower  dictionary. 
He  also  bought  spy-glasses  through  which  he  might 
watch  the  ways  and  movements  of  the  birds  in  the 
ilexes,  cedar  and  fir  trees.  Geology  too  he  took  up, 
and  trudged  out  with  the  local  geologist,  Keeping,  on 
many  a long  expedition. 

He  wrote  to  Charles  Kingsley  about  Hypatia : 

1853. 

My  dear  Kingsley, 

I hope  your  wife  got  my  books  which  mine 
ordered  Moxon  to  send.  In  the  conclusion  of  the 
“ Princess  ” the  compositors  have  made  a slight  mistake. 


1853]  “ HYPATIA.”  367 

Gray  halls  alone  among  their  massive  groves. 

They  have  printed  “ their  ” “ the  ” which  somewhat 
weakens  the  line. 

Hypatia  never  came;  but  I cannot  afford  to  be 
without  it.  Part  of  the  conclusion  seems  to  me  par- 
ticularly valuable.  I mean  the  talk  of  the  Christianized 
Jew  to  the  classic  boy.  Hypatia’s  mistreatment  by  the 
Alexandrians  I found  almost  too  horrible.  It  is  very 
powerful  and  tragic  ; but  I objected  to  the  word  “ naked.” 
Pelagia’s  nakedness  has  nothing  which  revolts  one... 
but  I really  was  hurt  at  having  Hypatia  stript,  tho’  I 
see  that  it  adds  to  the  tragic,  and  the  picture  as  well 
as  the  moral  is  a fine  one. 

Will  you  lay  your  hand  on  my  Adam  Smith  and 
send  it  per  post  ? I enclose  you  six  Queen’s  heads  for 
that  purpose. 

Believe  me,  dear  Kingsley, 

Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


FARRINGFORD  (1853-1855). 

Throughout  the  following  chapters  I have,  with  my 
mother’s  leave,  made  free  use  of  her  private  journal. 
Most  of  it  however  has  been  necessarily  compressed ; 
and  the  numerous  anecdotes  about  our  childhood  have 
been  eliminated. 

Here  however  I may  perhaps  be  allowed  to  note 
my  father’s  attitude  toward  children.  This  has  best 
been  given  in  his  baby-songs,  “ Sweet  and  Low,” 
“What  does  little  birdie  say?”  “Minnie  and  Winnie,” 
“ Dainty  Little  Maiden,”  and  his  dedicatory  poem  to 
“ Ally.”  I will  however  endeavour  to  set  down  briefly 
what  I myself  have  known  of  some  of  his  ways  with 
children,  and  to  begin  with,  what  I have  heard  of  his  love 
for  them  in  days  before  my  own. 

When  he  was  a young  man,  living  at  Somersby,  I 
have  been  told  by  those  of  the  family  younger  than 
himself  that  “ Alfred  was  their  delight.”  They  would 
sit  upon  his  knee,  or  cling  about  his  feet,  while  he  told 
them  stories  of  his  own  invention  that  enthralled  them, 
long  stories  of  hair-breadth  escapes,  and  of  travels 
ranging  over  all  parts  of  the  world.  For  the  boys  he 
would  make  himself  a Colossus  of  Rhodes,  the  fun  being 
that  they  should  brave  a “thwack  ” from  his  open  hand, 
or  escape  it  if  they  could,  while  rushing  under  the  arch- 
way of  his  legs. 


368 


HOME  LIFE. 


369 


1853] 

Of  babies  he  would  say : “ There  is  something 
gigantic  about  them.  The  wide-eyed  wonder  of  a 
babe  has  a grandeur  in  it  which  as  children  they  lose. 
They  seem  to  me  to  be  prophets  of  a mightier  race.” 

To  his  own  children  he  was  devoted.  From  the 
first  he  would,  when  my  mother  and  he  were  alone, 
carry  me  in  my  bassinet  into  the  drawing-room  that  he 
might  watch  my  baby-gestures;  and  one  of  the  very 
early  things  which  I remember  is  that  he  helped  the 
Master  of  Balliol  to  toss  my  brother  and  myself  in  a 
shawl.  Later,  he  made  us,  though  still  very  young,  as 
much  as  possible  his  little  companions.  My  mother 
was  not  strong  enough  to  walk  as  far  as  we  did,  and  so 
my  father  would  harness  my  brother  and  myself  to  her 
garden  carriage,  and  himself  push  from  behind ; and 
in  this  fashion  we  raced  up  hill  and  down  dale.  When 
the  days  were  warm  enough,  perhaps  we  sat  together 
on  a bank  in  one  of  our  home-fields,  and  he  would  read 
to  us,  or  in  cold  weather  would  play  football  with  us 
boys  in  an  old  chalk-pit,  or  build  castles  of  flint  on  the 
top  of  the  “ Beacon  Cliff,”  and  we  all  then  cannonaded 
from  a distance,  or  he  would  teach  us  to  shoot  with  bow 
and  arrow.  Some  days  we  went  flower-hunting,  and  on 
our  return  home,  if  the  flower  was  unknown,  he  would 
say,  “ Bring  me  my  Baxter’s  Flowering  Plants ,”  to  look 
it  out  for  us. 

If  it  was  rainy  or  stormy,  and  we  were  kept  indoors, 
he  often  built  cities  for  us  with  bricks,  or  played  battle- 
dore and  shuttlecock ; or  sometimes  he  read  Grimm’s 
Fairy  Stories  or  repeated  ballads  to  us.  I remember  his 
emphatic  recitation  in  those  far-off  years  of 

“ Malbrouck  s’en  va-t’en  guerre, 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine,” 

and  of  “ Si  le  roi  m’avait  donne 

Paris  sa  grand’  ville,” 

T.  1.  24 


370 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l853 


and  of  “Ye  Mariners  of  England,” 

and  of  “ The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.” 

On  feast  days  he  would  blow  bubbles  and  then  grow 
much  excited  over  the  “gorgeous  colours  and  land- 
scapes, and  the  planets  breaking  off  from  their  suns, 
and  the  single  star  becoming  a double  star,”  which  he 
saw  in  these  bubbles ; or  if  it  were  evening  he  would 
help  us  to  act  scenes  from  some  well-known  play. 
He  enjoyed  superintending  our  boy-charades,  and  if 
a prologue  had  to  be  written  would  make  the  most 
amusing  part  of  it. 

In  the  autumn  we  had  frequent  brushing  up  of  leaves 
from  the  lawns,  and  he  would  employ  us  in  helping  to 
make  new  glades  through  the  shrubs  or  in  re-shingling 
old  paths.  It  was  a red-letter  day  when  an  Italian 
organ-grinder  came,  as  he  did  more  years  than  one,  and 
was  asked  to  warm  himself  by  our  bonfire  of  leaves  and 
wood,  while  my  father  and  he  told  stories  of  Savoy, 
Piedmont  and  Lombardy.  My  father  was  always  in- 
terested in  the  imaginative  views  which  we  children  took 
of  our  surroundings.  Of  these  I may  give  one  instance  : 
how  Lionel  had  been  brought  from  his  bed  at  night, 
wrapt  in  a blanket,  to  see  the  great  comet,  and  suddenly 
awaking  and  looking  out  at  the  starry  night,  asked,  “ Am 
I dead  ? ” 

The  chief  anxiety  of  my  parents,  I remember,  was 
that  we  should  be  strictly  truthful,  and  my  father’s  words, 
spoken  long  ago,  still  dwell  with  me,  “ A truthful  man 
generally  has  all  virtues.”  He  was  very  particular  about 
our  being  courteous  to  the  poor.  The  severest  punish- 
ment he  ever  gave  me,  though  that  was,  it  must  be 
confessed,  slight,  was  for  some  want  of  respect  to  one  of 
our  servants. 

The  first  Latin  I learnt  from  him  was  Horaces 
O fons  Bandusicz , and  the  first  Greek  the  beginning  of 


HOME  LIFE. 


371 


1853] 

the  Iliad.  Before  this  he  liked  to  make  us  learn 
and  repeat  ballads,  and  simple  poems  about  Nature,  but 
he  would  never  teach  us  his  own  poems,  or  allow  us 
to  get  them  by  heart. 

In  the  summer  as  children  we  generally  passed 
through  London  to  Lincolnshire,  and  he  would  take 
us  for  a treat  to  Westminster  Abbey,  the  Zoological 
Gardens,  the  Tower  of  London,  the  Elgin  Marbles  at 
the  British  Museum,  or  the  National  Gallery.  In  the 
last  he  much  delighted  and  would  point  us  out  the 
various  excellences  of  the  different  masters;  he  always 
led  the  way  first  of  all  to  the  “ Raising  of  Lazarus  ” 
by  Sebastian  del  Piombo  and  to  Titian’s  “ Bacchus  and 
Ariadne.” 

A favourite  saying  was,  “ Make  the  lives  of  children 
as  beautiful  and  as  happy  as  possible.”  In  the  later 
years  of  his  life  his  grandchildren  loved  a romp  with  him, 
and  enjoyed  their  drives  when  he  would  fight  them  with 
newspapers  or  play  “ pat-a-cake  ” with  them.  To  the  end 
he  liked  a “frolic  with  young  things,”  and  when  on  one 
of  his  last  walks  he  met  the  village  school-children,  he 
pointed  his  stick  at  them,  barking  like  a dog  to  make 
them  laugh.  In  1889,  after  he  had  turned  eighty,  he 
wrote  the  lullaby  in  “ Romney’s  Remorse,”  partly  for  his 
little  grandson  Lionel : 

Father  and  mother  will  watch  you  grow, 

And  gather  the  roses  whenever  they  blow, 

And  find  the  white  heather  wherever  you  go, 

My  sweet. 

These  anecdotes  about  him  and  his  children,  as  I 
read  them  over,  seem  trivial  enough,  yet  I preserve  them, 
as  testifying  in  their  way  to  the  “ eternal  youth  of  the 
poet.” 


372 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l854 

The  year  1854  opened  with  the  booming  of  cannon 
from  Portsmouth,  where  the  artillery  were  practising  for 
the  Crimean  war.  On  March  16th  Lionel  was  born. 
My  father  when  he  heard  of  the  birth  was  looking 
through  the  study  window  at  the  planet  Mars  “ as  he 
glowed  like  a ruddy  shield  on  the  Lion’s  breast,”  and  so 
determined  to  give  the  name  Lionel. 

After  Lionel’s  birth  he  writes  to  Mrs  Cameron  and  to 
John  Forster: 


March  22 ndy  1854. 

My  dear  Mrs  Cameron, 

In  my  first  batch  of  letters,  sent  off  in  all 
directions,  when  the  new  babe  was  born,  I omitted  to 
write  to  you,  not  willingly,  but  of  necessity,  not  knowing 
your  “ Terrace,”  and  my  wife,  who  did  know,  not  being  to 
be  spoken  to. ...But  I hope  that  this  day,  the  sixth  from 
her  confinement,  will,  ere  it  fade  (a  very  brilliant  one 
over  cape  and  sea),  see  her  well,  except  for  weakness. 
I have  been  mesmerizing  her,  which,  she  says,  has  done 
her  a great  deal  of  good.  If  she  could  but  get  a sleep- 
ful night,  I have  no  doubt  it  would  be  all  right  by  the 
morrow.  As  for  the  little  fellow,  he  is  as  jolly  as  can  be, 
and  hardly  cries  at  all  yet.  Little  Hallam  watches  him, 
awe-struck,  cannot  make  him  out,  and  occasionally  wails 
over  him.  I daresay  that  these  are  phenomena  which 
you  have  often  tenderly  watched  in  your  own  family. 
You  have  not  written,  which  I would  far  rather  impute 
to  the  fact  of  my  not  having  written  than  to  the  pos- 
sibility of  your  being  unwell.  Pray  Heaven  the  last 
be  not  the  case  with  you ; neither  has  Mary  Marshall 
answered,  which  makes  me  anxious  about  her.  God 
bless  you,  dear  Julia  Cameron,  and 

Believe  me  affectionately  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 


1854] 


LETTER  TO  FORSTER. 


373 


Farringford  House,  Isle  of  Wight, 
March  29///,  1854. 

My  dear  Forster, 

I understand  from  Archibald  Peel  that  you  are 
aggriewd  at  my  not  writing  to  you : that  is  wrong,  morbid 
I think.  I almost  never  write  except  in  answer.  Why, 
if  you  wished  to  know  of  me  did  you  not  write  to  me  and 
you  would  have  heard?  Pray  don’t  be  distrustful.  I love 
you  all  the  same,  tho’  I should  not  write  for  100  years. 

Now  it  happens  that  a letter  was  half  written  to  you 
partly  to  condole  with  you  on  the  loss  of  dear  good 
genial  Talfourd,  partly  to  announce  the  birth  of  another 
son  of  mine.  I had  dozens  of  letters  to  indite  at  that 
time  to  female  cousins,  etc.,  and  I put  this  by  to  finish 
another  day,  and  I cannot  find  it,  or  I would  send  it  to 
prove  that  you  are  not  forgotten,  but  you  must  be  more 
trustful  of  me,  or  how  can  we  get  on  ? You  must  at  any 
rate  try  the  effect  of  a small  note  addrest  to  me  before 
you  find  fault  with  me. 

A reason  for  my  not  writing  much  is  the  bad  con- 
dition of  my  right  eye  which  quite  suddenly  came  on  as 
I was  reading  or  trying  to  read  small  Persian  text.  You 
know  perhaps  how  very  minute  in  some  of  those  Eastern 
tongues  are  the  differences  of  letters : a little  dot  more  or 
less : in  a moment,  after  a three  hours’  hanging  over  this 
scratchy  text,  my  right  eye  became  filled  with  great 
masses  of  floating  blackness,  and  the  other  eye  similarly 
affected  tho’  not  so  badly.  I am  in  a great  fear  about 
them,  and  think  of  coming  up  to  town  about  them,  for 
(whatever  you  may  conjecture)  I have  not  been  in  town 
for  many  months,  not  ever  since  I came  here  — did  not 
even  pass  thro’  town  on  my  way  here  but  went  by 
Kingston. 

I beseech  your  and  all  my  friends’  most  charitable 
interpretation  of  whatever  I do  or  may  be  said  to  do. 


374 


FARRINGFORD. 


[1854 

Our  post  only  allows  us  from  1 1 o’clock  to  i o’clock 
to  receive  and  answer  letters  which  is  (I  think)  another 
reason  why  I write  so  few. 

I have  been  correcting  my  brother  Frederick’s 
proofs  k I dare  say  you  may  have  seen  notice  of  their 
approaching  publication.  He  is  a true  poet,  though  his 
book  (I  think)  ought  to  have  been  a shorter  one. 

Farewell,  my  dear  fellow,  God  bless  you  and  keep 
you. 

Yours  affectionately  and  unchangingly, 

A.  Tennyson. 

My  wife’s  kind  regards  to  you : she  has  been  in  a 
great  state  of  suffering  and  sleeplessness  for  nine  days, 
but  at  last  I set  her  right  by  mesmerizing,  — the  effect 
was  really  wonderful. 

In  April  the  diary  says  that  he  drew  my  mother  out 
in  her  garden  chair  to  see  the  “ wealth  of  daffodils  ” 
and  the  ruby  sheaths  of  the  lime  leaves.  At  this  time 
Edward  Fitzgerald  stayed  at  Farringford  for  a fortnight ; 
he  sketched  and  my  father  carved  in  wood.  One  day 
Fitzgerald  brought  home  bunches  of  horned  poppies 
and  yellow  irises  over  which  like  a boy  he  was  ecstatic. 
In  the  evenings  he  played  Mozart,  or  translated  Persian 
Odes  for  my  father,  who,  as  has  been  said  in  the  letter 
to  Forster,  had  hurt  his  eyes  by  poring  over  a small- 
printed  Persian  Grammar:  until  this  with  Hafiz  and 
other  Persian  books  had  to  be  hidden  away,  for  he  had 
seen  “ the  Persian  letters  stalking  like  giants  round  the 
walls  of  his  room.”  My  father  observed  that  his  best 
working  days  were  “in  the  early  spring,  when  Nature 
begins  to  awaken  from  her  winter  sleep.” 


1 Days  and  Hours. 


1854]  LETTER  ABOUT  THE  CHILDREN’.  375 

To  this  date  belongs  the  following  letter  to  a friend: 

You  will  not  often  see  anything  so  sweet  as  my  little, 
not  quite  two  years  old  boy,  who  is  toddling  up  and 
down  the  room,  and  saying,  “Da,  date,”  and  “dada,” 
meaning  “ give  ” in  a very  respectable  Italian  lingo, 
pointing  to  everything  that  strikes  his  fancy.  Singularly 
enough  the  very  day  when  I despatched  my  note  to  you 
another  boy  was  born  at  9 p.m.,  a lusty  young  fellow, 
who  strikes  the  elder  one  with  awe,  sometimes  into 
sympathetic  tears,  sometimes  into  a kind  of  mimic  bleat- 
ing, when  he  hears  the  younger  one’s  inarticulate  cooings. 
The  first  we  had  was  born  dead  (a  great  grief  to  us), 
really  the  finest  boy  of  the  three ; and  I nearly  broke  my 
heart  with  going  to  look  at  him.  He  lay  like  a little 
warrior,  having  fought  the  fight,  and  failed,  with  his 
hands  clenched,  and  a frown  on  his  brow.... If  my  latest 
born  were  to  die  to-night,  I do  not  think  that  I should 
suffer  so  much  as  I did,  looking  on  that  noble  little  fellow 
who  had  never  seen  the  light.  My  wife,  who  had  had  a 
most  terrible  time  lasting  near  the  whole  of  one  Easter 
Sunday,  never  saw  him.  Well  for  her. 

Yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


In  May  my  father  stayed  in  London  and  in  August 
visited  Glastonbury,  Wells  and  the  Cheddar  Cliffs. 


My  father  s letter-diary. 

May  18th,  1854.  60  Lincolns  Inn  Fields.  I called 

on  Moxon  to  arrange  the  “ Illustrated  Edition  of  Poems,” 
and  we  went  round  to  the  artist  Creswick,  a capital 
broad  genial  fellow ; Mulready,  an  old  man,  was  full  of 
vivacity  and  showed  me  lots  of  his  drawings  and  one 


376 


FARRINGFORD. 


[1854 

or  two  of  his  pictures.  Then  on  to  Horsley  who  was 
likewise  very  amiable  and  said  that  I was  the  painter’s 
poet,  etc.,  then  on  to  Millais,  who  has  agreed  to  come 
down  in  a month’s  time  and  take  little  Hallam  as  an 
illustration  of  “ Dora.”  Sir  E.  Landseer  I did  not  call 
upon  and  Holman  Hunt  was  out  of  town. 

Went  to  Forster’s,  and  am  going  now  to  dine  with 
Spedding  somewhere,  and  then  going  to  the  Exhibition. 

May  2 ist.  Grove  called  and  will  be  ready  to  show 
us  the  Crystal  Palace.  On  Friday  I dine  with  Frederick 
Locker,  on  Saturday  with  Forster. 

May  22 nd.  I went  to  the  Crystal  Palace  yesterday 
with  Weld:  certainly  a marvellous  place,  but  yet  all  in 
confusion.  I do  not  think  that  it  will  be  worth  while  to 
go  up  on  the  ioth  for  the  opening,  as  it  will  be  by  no 
means  so  striking  an  affair  as  the  last  opening,  1851.  I 
was  much  pleased  with  the  Pompeian  house  and  with 
the  Iguanodons  and  Ichthyosaurs.  I dined  with  Frank 
Lushington  at  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Club  after- 
wards; Horatio  dined  with  us.  Tom  Taylor  came  to 
Spedding’s  in  the  evening  and  gave  me  a book  of  Breton 
ballads,  exceedingly  beautiful,  many  of  them. 

May  23 rd.  I called  on  Hallam  yesterday,  he  looks 
very  well. 


A ugust . 

I came  to  Glastonbury  after  parting  from  Grant1,, 
then  to  Yeovil  in  a fly,  17  miles,  which  rather  jarred 
against  my  paternity  when  I thought  that  little  Hallam 
and  Lionel  had  to  be  educated.  I went  to  the  Abbey. 
As  soon  as  I got  there,  there  rose  an  awful  thunderstorm, 
and  I took  shelter  over  Arimathaean  Joseph’s  bones  in 


1 Sir  Alexander  Grant  who  was  first  head  of  the  University  of  Bombay, 
afterwards  Principal  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 


SIR  JOHN  SIMEON. 


1854] 


377 


the  crypt  of  his  chapel  for  they  say  (credat  Judaeus)  he 
lies  there.  Only  one  arch  remains. 

Walked  over  to  Wells.  To  Wookey  Hole  this  morn- 
ing, a cave;  it  was  not  quite  what  I wanted  to  see,  tho’ 
very  grim.  Am  at  the  Swan  Hotel,  shall  go  over  to 
Cheddar  to-morrow. 

Arrived  at  Cheddar  to-day  and  have  just  seen  a 
stalactite  cavern,  a thing  I had  never  seen  before. 

August  \7tJ1.  Corfe  Castle,  Christchurch,  very  well 
worth  seeing:  Bournemouth  fashionable,  not  at  all  a 
place  to  buy  a house  in.  We  found  an  old  Waterloo 
soldier  on  the  coast. 


When  my  father  had  returned  to  Farringford,  he  and 
my  mother  “saw  a great  deal  of  the  Simeons,  Aubrey 
de  Vere  and  Baron  de  Schroeter  from  Swainston,  and 
lengthy  were  the  discussions  on  Roman  Catholicism.” 
My  father  was  much  impressed  by  the  deeply  felt 
religious  enthusiasm  of  the  Baron,  who  was  like  an 
old  ascetic  monk,  and  anxious  to  convert  my  parents. 

Of  Sir  John  Simeon’s  first  visits  his  daughter,  Mrs 
Richard  Ward,  writes: 

On  the  day  of  Lionel’s  christening  my  father  paid  his  first 
visit  to  Farringford,  and  found  the  family  party  just  returning 
from  church.  During  these  early  years,  it  was  one  of  my  father’s 
greatest  pleasures  to  ride  or  drive  over  from  Swainston  in  the 
summer  afternoons.  He  and  the  Tennysons  would  go  long 
expeditions  through  the  lanes  and  over  the  downs : then  back 
through  the  soft  evening  air  to  dinner  and  to  the  long  evening 
of  talk  and  of  reading,  which  knit  “that  fair  companionship” 
and  made  it  “such  a friendship  as  had  mastered  time.” 

It  was  then  that  my  father  worked  at  “ Maud,” 
morning  and  evening,  sitting  in  his  hard  high-backed 
wooden  chair  in  his  little  room  at  the  top  of  the  house. 
His  “sacred  pipes,”  as  he  called  them,  were  half  an  hour 
after  breakfast,  and  half  an  hour  after  dinner,  when  no  one 


373 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l854 

was  allowed  to  be  with  him,  for  then  his  best  thoughts 
came  to  him.  As  he  made  the  different  poems  he  would 
repeat  or  read  them.  The  constant  reading  of  the  new 
poems  aloud  was  the  surest  way  of  helping  him  to  find 
out  any  defects  there  might  be.  During  his  “ sacred 
half-hours  ” and  his  other  working  hours  and  even  on  the 
Downs,  he  would  murmur  his  new  passages  or  new  lines 
as  they  came  to  him,  a habit  which  had  always  been  his 
since  boyhood,  and  which  caused  the  Somersby  cook  to 
say  “ What  is  master  Awlfred  always  a praying  for  ? ” 

Aubrey  de  Vere  writes  of  this  year: 

In  1854  I went  from  Swainston,  the  residence  of  Sir  John 
Simeon,  my  friend,  and  the  friend  no  less  of  Alfred  Tennyson, 
in  whose  elegiac  lines  his  memory  is  embalmed  for  ever,  to 
Farringford,  where  the  poet  then  made  abode  with  his  wife 
and  two  children.  The  eldest  was  about  two  years  old ; the 
other  an  infant  in  arms ; and  I was  so  much  struck  by  his 
eyes,  the  most  contemplative  which  I had  ever  seen,  that  I 
exclaimed,  “ When  that  child  grows  to  be  a man  he  must  be 
a Carthusian  monk  ! ” “ Nothing  of  the  sort,”  was  the  answer 

I received ; “ but  a happy  husband,  and  a happy  father,  in 
a happy  home.”  The  home  I stood  in  was  a happy  home; 
and  the  fortnight  I spent  in  it  was  one  I can  never  forget.  The 
recollection  of  it  is  all  the  more  delightful  because  it  carries 
with  it  little  sense  of  variety,  “ So  like,  so  very  like  was  day 
to  day.”  The  year  had  reached  its  zenith  : the  sky  was  almost 
always  blue,  and  the  lovely  gleam  of  sea  was  a somewhat 
darker  blue,  while  the  healthful  breezes  of  Freshwater  prevented 
even  the  noontide  from  feeling  sultry.  The  earlier  part  of  the 
day  I spent  chiefly  in  reading  and  writing : in  the  afternoon  we 
sometimes  read  aloud  in  the  open  air,  or  rather  we  listened  to 
the  Poet’s  reading,  with  such  distractions  alone  as  were  caused 
by  a bird-note  louder  than  the  rest  or  a distant  sea-gleam  more 
bright.  On  one  occasion  our  book,  which  we  agreed  in  greatly 
admiring,  was  Coventry  Patmore’s  Angel  in  the  House , then 
recent.  Alfred  and  I had  many  a breezy  walk  along  the 
Downs  and  as  far  as  The  Needles,  sometimes  with  distant 
views  of  the  coast  flushed  by  sunset,  sometimes  with  a nearer 


WALKS  ON  THE  ISLAND. 


379 


1854] 

one  of  the  moonbeams  “ marbling  ” the  wet  sea-sands,  as  the 
wave  recoiled,  which  last  always  reminded  me  of  Landor’s 
lines, 

“ And  the  long  moonbeam  on  the  hard  wet  sands 
Lay  like  a jasper  column  half  uprear’d.” 

Tennyson  was  engaged  on  his  new  poem  “ Maud.”  Its  origin 
and  composition  were,  as  he  described  them,  singular.  He  had 
accidentally  lighted  upon  a poem  of  his  own  which  begins,  “ O 
that  ’twere  possible,”  and  which  had  long  before  been  published 
in  a selected  volume  got  up  by  Lord  Northampton  for  the  aid  of 
a sick  clergyman.  It  had  struck  him,  in  consequence,  I think,  of 
a suggestion  made  by  Sir  John  Simeon,  that,  to  render  the  poem 
fully  intelligible,  a preceding  one  was  necessary.  He  wrote  it ; 
the  second  poem  too  required  a predecessor;  and  thus  the 
whole  work  was  written,  as  it  were,  backwards . The  readers  of 
“ Maud  ” seldom  observe  that  in  the  love-complexities  of  that 
poem  the  birds  take  a vehement  part.  The  “ birds  in  the  high 
Hall-garden”  are  worldly  birds,  factious  for  the  young  Lord  and 
the  millionaire  Brother : 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her  ? 

The  “ birds  in  our  wood  ” are  as  ardent  partizans  of  the 
lovers.  I remarked  to  the  Poet  on  this  circumstance ; but  his 
answer  was  as  vague  as  the  “mowt  a bean  ” of  the  “ Northern 
Farmer.” 

This  summer  my  father  wrote  of  Freshwater  to  a 
friend  : “ Ours  is  by  far  in  my  opinion  the  most  note- 
worthy part  of  the  island,  with  an  air  on  the  Downs 
‘ worth,’  as  somebody  said,  ‘ sixpence  a pint.’  ” 

Through  the  autumn  and  winter  evenings  he  trans- 
lated aloud  to  my  mother  the  sixth  Aineid  of  Virgil  and 
Homer’s  description  of  Hades,  and  they  read  Dante’s 
Inferno  together.  Whewell’s  Plurality  of  Worlds  he 
also  carefully  studied.  “ It  is  to  me  anything,”  he  writes, 
“ but  a satisfactory  book.  It  is  inconceivable  that  the 
whole  Universe  was  merely  created  for  us  who  live  in 
this  third-rate  planet  of  a third-rate  sun.” 


380 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l854 

The  excitement  about  the  Crimean  War  was  intense. 
On  October  ioth  the  papers  were  full  of  the  particulars 
of  the  battle  of  the  Alma1.  The  journal  says:  “ Looking 
from  the  Beacon  and  seeing  the  white  cliffs  and  the  clear 
sea,  their  violet  gray  shading  seemed  to  us  tender  and 
sad ; perhaps  the  landscape  seemed  so  sad  because  of  the 
sorrowful  news  of  the  death-roll  in  the  Crimea  and  of  the 
death  of  our  neighbour  Colonel  Hood  in  the  trenches.” 
In  November  an  unknown  friend  sent  an  account  of 
the  charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  at  Balaclava  on  Octo- 
ber 25th,  — how  the  Scots  Greys  and  the  Inniskilleners 
flung  themselves  against  the  solid  Russian  column.  The 
writer  says  : “ Our  ears  were  frenzied  by  the  monotonous 
incessant  cannonade  going  on  for  days  together.” 

On  November  22nd  Millais’  long  promised  visit  was 
paid.  He  was  “ beguiled  into  sweeping  up  leaves  and 
burning  them 2.  He  made  sketches  of  Hallam  and  his 
mother,  Hallam  appearing  in  the  illustration  to  ‘ Dora.’  ” 
There  were  talks  with  Millais  “ as  to  the  limits  of  realism 
in  painting.”  My  father  hated  the  modern  realism  in 
painting  and  literature,  notably  as  shown  by  the  French 
schools.  With  regard  to  certain  English  pictures  he 
said  to  Millais  that  from  his  point  of  view,  “ if  you 

1 My  father  wrote  the  first  stanza  of  a song  entitled  u The  Alma  River,” 
which  my  mother  finished  and  set  to  music : 

Frenchman,  a hand  in  thine  ! 

Our  flags  have  waved  together ! 

Let  us  drink  to  the  health  of  thine  and  mine 
At  the  battle  of  Alma  River. 

Our  flags  together  furl’d, 

Henceforward  no  other  strife  — 

Than  which  of  us  most  shall  help  the  world, 

Which  lead  the  noblest  life. 

Then  pledge  we  our  glorious  dead, 

Swear  to  be  one  for  ever, 

And  God’s  best  blessing  on  each  dear  head 
That  rests  by  the  Alma  River. 

2 Perhaps  this  suggested  his  fine  early  picture  upon  the  subject. 


1854]  “THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.”  38 1 

have  human  beings  before  a wall,  the  wall  ought  to  be 
picturesquely  painted,  and  in  harmony  with  the  idea 
pervading  the  picture,  but  must  not  be  made  obtrusive 
by  the  bricks  being  too  minutely  drawn,  since  it  is  the 
human  beings  that  ought  to  have  the  real  interest  for  us 
in  a dramatic  picture.” 

When  Millais  left,  my  parents  read  together  Sou- 
vestre’s  account  of  the  Bretons.  The  fact  that  their 
most  popular  songs  are  religious  and  that,  when  the 
cholera  was  among  them,  they  would  not  listen  to  the 
doctors  until  they  put  their  advice  in  song,  set  to  national 
airs,  struck  my  father.  On  Dec.  2nd  he  wrote  “ The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  1 ” in  a few  minutes,  after 
reading  the  description  in  the  Times  in  which  occurred 
the  phrase  “some  one  had  blundered,”  and  this  was  the 
origin  of  the  metre  of  his  poem.  Christmas  Eve  is  kept 
by  his  “ blowing  bubbles  for  the  children,  and  making 
fun  for  them  by  humping  up  his  shoulders  high,  and 
pretending  to  be,  a giant.” 

At  the  end  of  the  year  he  received  Professor  Ferrier’s 
History  of  Philosophy , with  the  following  letter : 

St  Andrews,  Dec.  \^th,  1854. 

Dear  Sir, 

You  were  among  the  very  first  to  whom  my  book  was 
to  be  sent  and  I supposed  that  you  had  received  it  some  six 
weeks  ago.  Possibly  Blackwood  did  not  know  your  address  and 
therefore  sent  it  to  your  publisher. 

If  anything  strikes  you  as  inconsecutive  in  the  reasoning 
you  will  do  me  a favour  by  pointing  it  out. 

One  eminent  authority  has  given  it  as  his  opinion  that  there 
is  a non  sequitur  in  the  passage  from  Prop.  I.  to  Prop.  II.  To 
me  this  seems  odd.  I esteem  it  a high  honour  to  have  now 
made  your  acquaintance  and  a great  privilege  to  be  allowed  to 
subscribe  myself 

Very  truly  yours,  F.  Ferrier. 

1 Published  in  the  Examiner,  Dec.  9th. 


382 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l854 


Frederick  Tennyson  wrote  from  Florence  : 

Dec.  30th,  1854. 

My  dear  E.  and  A., 

Browning  comes  in  occasionally,  but  poor  Mrs  B. 
never  stirs  out  during  the  winter.  Under  the  rose,  they  are 
both  preparing  new  poems,  Browning  a batch  of  Lyrics  which 
are  to  be  the  real  thing,  Mrs  B.  a kind  of  Metrical  Romance. 
Though  I have  the  highest  esteem  for  Browning,  and  believe 
him  to  be  a man  of  infinite  learning,  jest  and  bonhommie,  and 
moreover  a sterling  heart  that  reverbs  no  hollowness,  I verily 
believe  his  school  of  poetry  to  be  the  most  grotesque  conceivable. 
With  the  exception  of  the  “ Blot  on  the  ’Scutcheon,”  through 
which  you  may  possibly  grope  your  way  without  the  aid  of  an 
Ariadne,  the  rest  appear  to  me  to  be  Chinese  puzzles,  trackless 
labyrinths,  unapproachable  nebulosities.  Yet  he  has  a very 
Catholic  taste  in  poetry,  doing  justice  to  everything  good  in  all 
poets  past  or  present,  and  he  is  one  who  has  a profound  admira- 
tion of  Alfred.  I hear  from  Palgrave  that  A.  has  a new  poem  on 
the  stocks ; a few  of  the  best  stanzas  in  your  next  letter  I should 
prize  highly,  and  the  Brownings  would  be  delighted  to  see  a 
specimen  of  it.  I suppose  the  poem  on  the  “ Charge  of  the  Six 
Hundred  ” in  the  Examiner , signed  A.  T.,  is  really  by  Alfred. 
Browning  sent  me  the  paper  but  I could  give  him  no  informa- 
tion on  the  subject. 

Your  affectionate  brother,  F.  Tennyson. 

On  Jan.  10th,  1855,  my  father  had  “finished,  and 
read  out,  several  lyrics  of  ‘ Maud.’  ” The  weather  in 
January  and  February  was  arctic  and  the  waves  froze  on 
the  beach. 

The  news  of  the  loss  of  Sir  John  Franklin,  my 
mother’s  uncle,  in  the  Arctic  Regions  was  at  this  time 
“ a great  shock  V’  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Dr  Kane, 
who  was  on  the  second  Grinnell  Expedition  in  search  of 
Sir  John,  honoured  my  father  by  naming  a natural  rock 

1 My  mother  thought  that  her  uncle’s  last  words  to  her  were : “ If  I am 
lost,  remember,  Emily,  my  firm  belief  that  there  is  open  sea  at  the  North 
Pole.” 


“ tennyson’s  monument.” 


383 


1855] 

column  480  feet  high,  on  a pedestal  280  feet  high,  to  the 
north  of  latitude  79  degrees,  “Tennyson’s  Monument.” 

Dr  Kane  wrote : 

I remember  well  the  emotions  of  my  party  as  it  first  broke 
upon  our  view.  Cold  and  sick  as  I was,  I brought  back  a sketch 
of  it,  which  may  have  interest  for  the  reader,  though  it  scarcely 
suggests  the  imposing  dignity  of  this  magnificent  landmark. 
Those  who  are  happily  familiar  with  the  writings  of  Tennyson 
and  have  communed  with  his  spirit  in  the  wilderness,  will  appre- 
hend the  impulse  that  inscribed  the  scene  with  his  name. 

In  February  my  father  “ translated  aloud  three  Idylls 
of  Theocritus,  Hylas , The  Island  of  Cos , and  The  Syra- 
cusan Women!  In  March  “ Woolner  made  a medallion 
of  him  (the  best  likeness  that  had  yet  been  made).” 

On  March  22nd  my  father  received  this  letter  from 
Ruskin : 

Denmark  Hill,  Camberwell, 

21st  March,  1855. 

Dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I venture  to  write  to  you,  because  as  I was  talking 
about  you  with  Mr  Woolner  yesterday,  he  gave  me  more  plea- 
sure than  I can  express  by  telling  me  that  you  wished  to  see  my 
“ Turners.” 

By  several  untoward  chances  I have  been  too  long  hindered 
from  telling  you  face  to  face  how  much  I owe  you.  So  you  see 
at  last  I seize  the  wheel  of  fortune  by  its  nearest  spoke,  begging 
you  with  the  heartiest  entreaty  I can,  to  tell  me  when  you  are 
likely  to  be  in  London  and  to  fix  a day  if  possible  that  I may 
keep  it  wholly  for  you,  and  prepare  my  “Turners”  to  look 
their  rosiest  and  best.  Capricious  they  are  as  enchanted  opals, 
but  they  must  surely  shine  for  you. 

Any  day  will  do  for  me  if  you  give  me  notice  two  or  three 
days  before,  but  please  come  soon,  for  I have  much  to  say  to 
you  and  am  eager  to  say  it,  above  all  to  tell  you  how  for  a 
thousand  things  I am  gratefully  and  respectfully  yours, 

J.  Ruskin. 

In  April  my  father  walked  to  Bonchurch,  and  wrote 
to  my  mother : “ If  I stop  another  day  here,  I may  have 


384 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l855 

a chance  of  seeing  double  stars  thro’  a telescope  of 
Dr  Mann’s,  a very  clever  interesting  doctor  with  whom 
I spent  two  hours  this  morning.  He  showed  me  things 
thro’  his  microscope.” 

He  was  home  again  on  April  25th,  and  “copied  out 
‘ Maud  ’ for  the  press,  and  read  ‘ The  Lady  of  the  Lake,’ 
having  just  finished  Goethe’s  ‘ Helena.’  ” 

On  June  6th  he  writes:  “I  have  strangely  enough 
accepted  the  Oxford  Doctorship.  Friends  told  me  I 
ought  to  accept  it,  so  I did.”  Temple 1 had  suggested  my 
father  for  that  degree.  My  parents  stayed  at  Balliol ; and 
my  father  said,  as  he  sat  in  the  Balliol  gardens,  “ The 
shouts  of  the  Undergraduates  from  the  theatre  are 
like  the  shouts  of  the  Roman  crowd,  ‘ Christiani  ad 
Leones ! ’ ” He  was  very  nervous  before  going,  but 
entered  the  theatre  quite  calmly  with  Sir  John  Burgoyne, 
the  stately-looking  Montalembert,  and  Sir  de  Lacy  Evans. 
He  sat  on  the  steps  nearly  under  Lord  Derby,  then  there 
was  one  great  shout  for  “In  Memoriam,”  one  for  “Alma” 
and  one  for  “ Inkermann.”  The  sea  of  upturned  faces  was 
very  striking,  and  my  father  had  a “ tremendous  ovation” 
when  he  received  his  degree.  The  new  doctor  ordinarily 
borrows  a doctor’s  robes  from  a tailor  and  just  wears 
them  in  the  Sheldonian  Theatre  for  the  ceremony.  But 
my  father  after  luncheon  asked  the  Master  of  Balliol 
whether  it  would  be  against  rule  and  propriety  if  he 
might  have  a smoke,  as  it  was  his  fancy  to  do  so,  among 
the  green  trees  when  clad  in  his  red  doctorial  robes. 
The  Master  said  that  he  might  do  so,  and  he  smoked  in 
the  then  walled-in  Master’s  garden,  now  open  to  the 
college.  “In  the  evening  at  Magdalen  he  had  long 
talks  with  Mr  Gladstone  and  Montalembert.”  Next 
day  Arthur  Butler  and  Max  Muller  took  my  father  and 
mother  about  Oxford,  and  to  the  Bodleian,  to  see  the 


1 Now  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 


FRENCH  TRANSLATIONS. 


1855] 


385 


Illuminated  Missals,  and  Dr  Wellesley  showed  them  the 
Raffaelle  sketches.  At  night  they  had  tea  with  Professor 
Johnson  and  Professor  Adams,  and  looked  at  the  Nebulae 
in  Cassiopeia  through  the  big  telescope,  the  Ring  Nebula 
in  Lyra  and  also  some  double  stars. 

On  July  7th  they  reached  home,  and  the  last  touch 
was  put  to  “ Maud,”  before  giving  it  to  the  publisher. 
Up  to  the  time  of  my  father’s  death,  when  his  friends 
asked  him  to  read  aloud  from  his  own  poetry,  he  generally 
chose  “ Maud,”  the  “Ode  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington,” 
or  “ Guinevere.” 

Translations  into  French  of  “ Ring  out,  wild  bells,” 
and  “ Mariana  in  the  Moated  Grange,”  were  sent  him 
from  France. 

He  pointed  out  “what  a poor  language  French 
is  for  translating  English  poetry,  although  it  is  the 
best  language  for  delicate  nuances  of  meaning.  How 
absurd  ‘ Ring  out,  wild  bells  ’ sounds  in  the  translation 
‘ Sonnez,  Cloches,  Sonnez,’  and  what  a ridiculous  rendering 
of  ‘ He  cometh  not,  she  said  ’ is  ‘ Tom  ne  vient  pas  ’ ! 1 ” 

August  6th.  “The  Balaclava  Charge”  with  the  fol- 
lowing short  preface  was  forwarded  to  John  Forster  to 
be  printed  on  a fly-leaf  for  the  Crimean  Soldiers. 


1 About  this  time  he  wrote  a letter  to  the  Breton  poet  Hippolyte  Lucas : 
Une  Lettre  inedite  d' Alfred  Te7inyson  a Hipfiolyte  Lucas. 

Cher  Monsieur, 

Ce  m’est  veritablement  une  douce  chose  que  d’avoir  trouvd  une 
&me  podtique  qui  puisse  fraterniser  avec  la  mienne  de  l’autre  c6td  de  la 
grande  mer.  Les  poetes,  comme  vous  le  dites  fort  bien,  sont  ou  plutbt 
devraient  etre  relies  ensemble  par  une  chalne  electrique,  car  ils  ne  doivent 
pas  parler  seulement  pour  leurs  compatriotes.  J’ai  lu  vos  vers  plusieurs 
fois,  et  ils  m’ont  cause  plus  de  plaisir  a chaque  nouvelle  lecture.  Je  suis 
particulierement  flatte  de  leur  ressemblance  avec  mon  propre  po&me. 

Si  jamais  je  fais  un  voyage  en  Bretagne,  j’aurai  l’honneur  et  le  plaisir  de 
vous  faire  une  visite.  Votre  province  est  riche  en  ldgendes  poetiques  de 
toute  espece,  et  par  cela  meme  particulierement  ch^re  aux  Anglais.  J’espere 
la  voir  un  jour,  et  vous  en  meme  temps. 

En  attendant,  croyez-moi,  cher  monsieur,  votre  tout  devoud 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


t.  1. 


25 


386 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l855 

August  %th,  1855. 

Having  heard  that  the  brave  soldiers  before  Sebas- 
topol, whom  I am  proud  to  call  my  countrymen,  have  a 
liking  for  my  ballad  on  the  charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 
at  Balaclava,  I have  ordered  a thousand  copies  of  it  to 
be  printed  for  them.  No  writing  of  mine  can  add  to  the 
glory  they  have  acquired  in  the  Crimea ; but  if  what  I 
have  heard  be  true  they  will  not  be  displeased  to  receive 
these  copies  from  me,  and  to  know  that  those  who  sit 
at  home  love  and  honour  them. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

To  John  Forster . 

[ Undated .] 

My  dear  Forster, 

In  the  first  place  thanks  for  your  critique 
which  seems  to  me  good  and  judicious.  Many  thanks, 
my  wife  will  write  to  you  about  it ; but  what  I am  writing 
to  you  now  about  is  a matter  which  interests  me  very 
much.  My  friend  Chapman  of  3,  Stone  Buildings, 
Lincoln’s  Inn,  writes  to  me  thus:  — “An  acquaintance 
of  mine  in  the  department  of  the  S.P.G.  as  he  calls  it 
(Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel)  was  saying 
how  a chaplain  in  the  Crimea  sent  by  the  Society 
writes  to  the  Society  — (neither  he  nor  the  Society  being 
suspected  of  any  Tennysonian  prejudices)  — ‘The  greatest 
service  you  can  dox  just  now  is  to  send  out  on  printed 
slips  Mr  A.  T.’s  ‘ Charge  at  Balaclava.’  It  is  the  greatest 
favourite  of  the  soldiers — half  are  singing  it,  and  all 
want  to  have  it  in  black  and  white,  so  as  to  read  what 
has  so  taken  them.’  ” 

Now,  my  dear  Forster,  you  see  I cannot  possibly  be 
deaf  to  such  an  appeal.  I wish  to  send  out  about  1000 
slips,  and  I don’t  at  all  want  the  S.P.G.  or  any  one  to 


1 Thus  underscored  in  the  original. 


387 


1855]  LETTERS  ABOUT  THE  “ CHARGE.” 

send  out  the  version  last  printed:  it  would,  I believe, 
quite  disappoint  the  soldiers.  Don’t  you  live  quite  close 
to  the  S.P.G.  ? Could  you  not  send  Henry  over  to  say 
that  / am  sending  over  the  soldiers’  version  of  my  ballad, 
and  beg  them  not  to  stir  in  the  matter  ? The  soldiers 
are  the  best  critics  in  what  pleases  them.  I send  you 
a copy  which  retains  the  “ Light  Brigade,”  and  the 
“blunder’d”;  and  I declare  it  is  the  best  of  the  two, 
and  that  the  criticism  of  two  or  three  London  friends  (not 
yours)  induced  me  to  spoil  it.  For  Heaven’s  sake  get 
this  copy  fairly  printed  at  once,  and  sent  out.  I have  sent 
it  by  this  post  likewise  to  Moxon,  but  you  are  closer  to 
your  printer.  Concoct  with  him  how  it  is  all  to  be 
managed : I am  so  sorry  that  I am  not  in  town  to  have 
done  it  at  once.  I have  written  a little  note  to  the 
soldiers  which  need  not  be  sent  — just  as  you  like.  It 
might  be  merely  printed  “ From  A.  Tennyson.”  Please 
see  to  all  this : and  see  that  there  are  no  mistakes ; and 
I will  be  bound  to  you  for  evermore,  and  more  than  ever 
yours  in  great  haste, 

A.  Tennyson. 

P.S.  I am  convinced  now  after  writing  it  out  that 
this  is  the  best  version. 

The  following  tribute  was  received  from  Scutari : 

We  had  in  hospital  a man  of  the  Light  Brigade,  one  of  the 
few  who  survived  that  fatal  mistake,  the  Balaclava  charge  ; but 
which,  deplorable  as  it  was,  at  least  tended  to  show  the  high 
state  of  discipline  attained  in  the  British  army.  I spoke  to 
several  of  those  engaged  in  that  deadly  conflict,  and  they  could 
describe  accurately  the  position  of  the  Russian  cannon  ; were 
perfectly  aware  when  obeying  that  word  of  command,  that  they 
rode  to  almost  certain  death.  This  patient  had  received  a kick 
in  the  chest  from  a horse  long  after  the  battle  of  Balaclava,  while 
in  barracks  at  Scutari.  He  was  depressed  in  spirits,  which 
prevented  him  from  throwing  off  the  disease  engendered  by  the 
blow.  The  doctor  remarked  that  he  wished  the  soldier  could  be 


388 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l855 

roused.  Amongst  other  remedies  leeches  were  prescribed. 
While  watching  them  I tried  to  enter  into  a conversation  with 
him,  spoke  of  the  charge,  but  could  elicit  only  monosyllabic 
replies.  A copy  of  Tennyson’s  poems  having  been  lent  me 
that  morning,  I took  it  out  and  read  it.  The  man,  with  kindling 
eye,  at  once  entered  upon  a spirited  description  of  the  fatal 
gallop  between  the  guns’  mouths  to  and  from  that  cannon- 
crowded  height.  He  asked  to  hear  it  again,  but,  as  by  this  time 
a number  of  convalescents  were  gathered  around,  I slipped  out 
of  the  ward.  The  chaplain  who  had  lent  me  the  poem,  under- 
standing the  enthusiasm  with  which  it  had  been  received, 
afterwards  procured  from  England  a number  of  copies  for 
distribution.  In  a few  days  the  invalid  requested  the  doctor  to 
discharge  him  for  duty,  being  now  in  health  ; but  whether  the 
cure  was  effected  by  the  leeches  or  the  poem  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  On  giving  the  card  the  medical  man  murmured,  “ Well 
done,  Tennyson  ! ” 

On  one  of  the  anniversaries  of  the  Balaclava  charge 
a banquet  was  given  in  London,  and  my  father  was 
pressed  to  attend.  Being  unable  to  do  so,  he  sent  the 
following  letter  to  the  chairman  of  the  committee : 


Farringford,  Freshwater. 

Dear  Sir, 

I cannot  attend  your  banquet,  but  I enclose 
£$  to  defray  some  of  its  expenses,  or  to  be  distributed 
as  you  may  think  fit  among  the  most  indigent  of  the 
survivors  of  that  glorious  charge.  A blunder  it  may 
have  been,  but  one  for  which  England  should  be 
grateful,  having  thereby  learnt  that  her  soldiers  are 
the  most  honest  and  most  obedient  under  the  sun.  I 
will  drink  a cup  of  wine  on  the  25th  to  the  health  and 
long  life  of  all  your  fine  fellows ; and,  thanking  yourself 
and  your  comrades  heartily  for  the  cordial  invitation  sent 
me,  I pray  you  all  to  believe  me,  now  and  ever,  your 
admiring  fellow-countryman, 


A.  Tennyson. 


DEATH  OF  HARRY  LUSHINGTON. 


38  9 


1855] 

He  had  intended  to  write  a poem  on  the  soldiers’ 
battle  of  Inkermann,  but  only  got  as  far  as  the  first 
line:  “Strong  eight  thousand  of  Inkermann.” 

At  this  time  my  father’s  friend  Harry  Lushington, 
who  with  his  brother  Franklin  had  published  some 
stirring  poems  on  the  Crimean  war,  died  in  Paris. 

My  father  s letter-diary  of  days  in  the  New  Forest . 

August  31  st.  Haven’t  had  the  heart  to  get  further 
than  Winchester  and  Salisbury.  I am  going  to-day  to 
take  a gig  across  country  to  Lyndhurst. 

Lyndhurst,  Sept.  1st.  Tho’  I had  said  that  the 
New  Forest,  for  didn’t  I expect  that  it  was  disforested, 
would  not  do  again ; tho’,  when  I started  this  morning, 
I got  on  the  wrong  track  for  four  miles  or  so  out  of  the 
way  of  the  great  timber ; the  vast  solemn  beeches 
delighted  me,  but  my  soul  was  not  satisfied,  for  I did 
not  meet  with  any  so  very  large  beech  as  I had  met 
with  before.  Yet  I rejoiced  in  the  beeches  and  have 
resolved  to  stay  till  Monday  and  see  them  twice  again. 
I have  lost  the  tobacco  case  which  Simeon  gave  me ; 
I am  grieved,  but  it  was  so  like  the  colour  of  last  year’s 
beech  leaves  that  I did  not  see  it  when  I turned  to  leave 
the  spot  where  I had  smoked. 

Crown  Hotel \ Lyndlmrst.  Sept.  2nd . I lost  my 

way  in  the  Forest  to-day,  and  have  walked  I don’t  know 
how  many  miles.  I found  a way  back  to  Lyndhurst 
by  resolutely  following  a track  which  brought  me  at  last 
to  a turnpike.  On  this  I went  a mile  in  the  wrong 
direction,  that  is  towards  Christchurch,  then  met  a surly 
fellow  who  grudgingly  told  me  I was  four  miles  from 
Lyndhurst,  whereby  I turned  and  walked  to  Lyndhurst. 
My  admiration  of  the  Forest  is  great : it  is  true  old  wild 
English  Nature,  and  then  the  fresh  heath-sweetened  air  is 
so  delicious.  The  Forest  is  grand. 


390 


FARRINGFORD. 


[l855 

Lojidon,  Sept.  2 8t/i.  I dined  yesterday  with  the 

Brownings  and  had  a very  pleasant  evening.  Both  of 
them  are  great  admirers  of  poor  little  “ Maud.”  The 
two  Rossettis  came  in  during  the  evening1. 

October  1st.  I dined  at  Twickenham,  my  mother 
looking  very  well  and  intending  to  keep  the  house 
on  another  year.  I also  dined  with  the  Camerons  last 
night,  she  is  more  wonderful  than  ever  I think  in  her 
mild-beaming  benevolence.  I read  “ Maud  ” to  five  or 
six  people  at  the  Brownings  (on  Sept.  28th). 

Mrs  Browning  writes  thereupon  to  my  mother : 


13  Dorset  Street,  October , 1855. 

My  dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 

If  I had  not  received  your  kindest  of  letters  I had 
yet  made  up  my  mind  not  to  leave  England  without  writing  to 
you  to  thank  you  (surely  it  would  have  been  your  due)  for  the 
deep  pleasure  we  had  in  Mr  Tennyson’s  visit  to  us.  He  didn’t 
come  back  as  he  said  he  would  to  teach  me  the  “ Brook  ” (which 
I persist  nevertheless  in  fancying  I understand  a little),  but 
he  did  so  much  and  left  such  a voice  (both  him  “ and  a voice ! ”) 
crying  out  “Maud  ” to  us,  and  helping  the  effect  of  the  poem  by 
the  personality,  that  it’s  an  increase  of  joy  and  life  to  us  ever. 
Then  may  we  not  venture  to  think  now  of  Alfred  Tennyson  our 
frie?id  ? and  was  it  not  worth  while  coming  from  Italy  to  Eng- 
land for  so  much  ? Let  me  say  too  another  thing,  that  though 
I was  hindered  (through  having  women  friends  with  me,  whom 
I loved  and  yet  could  not  help  wishing  a little  further  just  then) 
from  sitting  in  the  smoke  and  hearing  the  talk  of  the  next 
room,  yet  I heard  some  sentences  which,  in  this  materialistic 
low-talking  world,  it  was  comfort  and  triumph  to  hear  from  the 
lips  of  such  a man.  So  I thank  you  both,  and  my  husband’s 
thanks  go  with  mine. 

As  to  a visit  to  you,  how  pleasant  that  you  should  ask  us ! 

1 Gabriel  Rossetti  wrote  to  William  Allingham  about  this  evening  in  an 
unpublished  letter : “ He  is  quite  as  glorious  in  his  way  as  Browning  in 
his,  and  perhaps  of  the  two  even  more  impressive  on  the  whole  personally.” 


1855]  LETTER  FROM  MRS  BROWNING.  39 1 

This  year  we  could  not  have  gone,  next  year  perhaps  we  shall 
not  be  able  any  more  * * * but  every  year  of  our  lives  it  will  be 
pleasant  to  think  that  you  have  wished  it.  Dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 
you  do  not  mind  the  foolish  remarks  on  “ Maud  ” * * * do  you  ? 
These  things  are  but  signs  of  an  advance  made,  of  the  tide  rising. 
People  on  the  shore  are  troubled  in  their  picking  up  of  shells 
a little. 

Kiss  your  children  for  me : I hope  my  child  may  play  with 
them  before  long.  My  husband’s  “ Men  and  Women  ” shall 
go  to  Mr  Tennyson  on  the  publication,  not  to  trouble  him 
(understand)  with  exaction  of  a letter  or  opinion,  but  simply  as 
a sign  of  personal  regard  and  respect. 

Dear  Mrs  Tennyson  and  dear  Mr  Tennyson,  believe  us  both 
very  affectionately  yours,  though  I have  but  the  name  of 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

P.S.  (We  leave  England  to-morrow.)  God  bless  you,  dear 
and  admirable  friends.  My  wife  feels  what  she  says,  and  I 
feel  with  her. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Robert  Browning. 

On  his  return  the  evening  books  were  Milton, 
Shakespeare’s  Sonnets , Thackeray’s  Humourists , some 
of  Hallam’s  History  and  of  Carlyle’s  Cromwell. 

This  Christmas  “ Mr.  Lear  paid  us  a visit  and  sang 
his  settings  of  ‘ Mariana,’  ‘ Lotos-Eaters,’  ‘ Let  not  the 
solid  earth,’  and  ‘ Oh  that  ’twere  possible.’  ” 

One  day  my  father  received  “ an  interesting  letter 
telling  him  of  a man  who  had  been  roused  from  a state 
of  suicidal  despondency  by  ‘ The  Two  Voices.’  ” 

At  the  end  of  the  year  an  unknown  Nottingham 
artizan  came  to  call.  My  father  asked  him  to  dinner 
and  at  his  request  read  “ Maud.”  It  appears  that  the 
poor  man  had  sent  his  poems  beforehand.  They  had 
been  acknowledged,  but  had  not  been  returned,  and 
had  been  forgotten.  He  was  informed  that  the  poems, 


392  FARRINGFORD.  [l855 

thus  sent,  were  always  looked  at,  although  my  father 
and  mother  had  not  time  to  pass  judgment  on  them. 
A most  pathetic  incident  of  this  kind,  my  father  told 
me,  happened  to  him  at  Twickenham,  when  a Waterloo 
soldier  brought  twelve  large  cantos  on  the  battle  of 
Waterloo.  The  veteran  had  actually  taught  himself 
in  his  old  age  to  read  and  write  that  he  might  thus 
commemorate  Wellington’s  great  victory.  The  epic  lay 
for  some  time  under  the  sofa  in  my  father’s  study,  and 
was  a source  of  much  anxiety  to  him.  How  could  he  go 
through  such  a vast  poem  ? One  day  he  mustered  up 
courage  and  took  a portion  out.  It  opened  on  the 
heading  of  a canto : “ The  Angels  encamped  above  the 
field  of  Waterloo.”  On  that  day,  at  least,  he  “read  no 
more.”  He  gave  the  author,  when  he  called  for  his 
manuscript,  this  criticism : “ Though  great  images  loom 
here  and  there,  your  poem  could  not  be  published  as  a 
whole.”  The  old  man  answered  nothing,  wrapt  up  each 
of  the  twelve  cantos  carefully,  placed  them  in  a strong 
oak  case  and  carried  them  off.  He  was  asked  to  come 
again  but  he  never  came. 


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Frowz  the  Original  MS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


“ MAUD1.” 

After  reading  “Maud”: 

Leave  him  to  us,  ye  good  and  sage, 
Who  stiffen  in  your  middle  age. 

Ye  loved  him  once,  but  now  forbear; 
Yield  him  to  those  who  hope  and  dare, 
And  have  not  yet  to  forms  consign’d 
A rigid  ossifying  mind. 

Ionica. 


Pure  lyrical  poetry  of  every  form  had  been  essayed 
by  my  father  before  1855,  but  a monodramatic  lyric,  like 
“ Maud,”  was  a novelty.  In  consequence  its  meaning 
and  drift  were  widely  misunderstood  even  by  educated 
readers,  which  partly  accounts  for  the  outburst  of  hostile 
criticism  that  greeted  its  appearance.  It  is  a “ Drama 
of  the  Soul,”  set  in  a landscape  glorified  by  Love,  and 
according  to  Lowell,  “ The  antiphonal  voice  to  ‘ In 
MemoriamV”  Nothing  perhaps  more  justified  what  has 
been  said  of  my  father,  that  had  he  not  been  a poet,  he 
might  have  been  remarkable  as  an  actor,  than  his  reading 
of  “ Maud,”  with  all  its  complex  contrasts  of  motive  and 

1 The  volume  contained  u Maud”  ( written  at  Far  ring  ford'),  u The  Brook,” 
“The  Letters,”  “Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,”  “The 
Daisy,”  “To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,”  “Will,”  “The  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade.” 

2 My  father  sometimes  called  “In  Memoriam,”  “The  Way  of  the  Soul.” 


394  “ MAUD.”  [l855 

action.  He  generally  prefaced  his  reading  with  an 
explanation,  the  substance  of  which  has  been  given  by 
Dr  Mann  in  his  Maud  Vindicated . 

1 “At  the  opening  of  the  drama,  the  chief  person  or 
hero  of  the  action  is  introduced  with  scenery  and  incidents 
artistically  disposed  around  his  figure,  so  as  to  make  the 
reader  at  once  acquainted  with  certain  facts  in  his  history, 
which  it  is  essential  should  be  known.  Although  still 
a young  man,  he  has  lost  his  father  some  years  before 
by  a sudden  and  violent  death,  following  immediately 
upon  unforeseen  ruin  brought  about  by  an  unfortunate 
speculation  in  which  the  deceased  had  engaged.  Whether 
the  death  was  the  result  of  accident,  or  self-inflicted  in 
a moment  of  despair,  no  one  knows,  but  the  son’s  mind 
has  been  painfully  possessed  by  a suspicion  of  villainy 
and  foul  play  somewhere,  because  an  old  friend  of  his 
family  became  suddenly  and  unaccountably  rich  by  the 
same  transaction  that  had  brought  ruin  to  the  dead. 
Shortly  after  the  decease  of  his  father,  the  bereaved 
young  man,  by  the  death  of  his  mother,  is  left  quite  alone 
in  the  world.  He  continues  thenceforth  to  reside  in  the 
retired  village  in  which  his  early  days  have  been  spent, 
but  the  sad  experiences  of  his  youth  have  confirmed  the 
bent  of  a mind  constitutionally  prone  to  depression  and 
melancholy.  Brooding  in  loneliness  upon  miserable 
memories  and  bitter  fancies,  his  temperament  as  a matter 
of  course  becomes  more  and  more  morbid  and  irritable. 
He  can  see  nothing  in  human  affairs  that  does  not 
awaken  in  him  disgust  and  contempt.  Evil  glares  out 
from  all  social  arrangements,  and  unqualified  meanness 
and  selfishness  appear  in  every  human  form,  so  he  keeps 
to  himself  and  chews  the  cud  of  cynicism  and  discontent 
apart  from  his  kind.  Such  in  rough  outline  is  the  figure 
the  poet  has  sketched  as  the  foundation  and  centre  of  his 

1 My  father  desired  that  the  passage  by  Dr  Mann,  here  quoted,  should 
be  inserted  among  his  notes  1891-92. 


1855] 


LAST  READING  OF  THE  POEM. 


395 


plan  * # *.  Since  the  days  of  his  early  youth  up  to 
the  period  when  the  immediate  action  of  the  poem  is 
supposed  to  commence,  the  dreamy  recluse  has  seen 
nothing  of  the  family  of  the  man  to  whom  circumstances 
have  inclined  him  to  attribute  his  misfortunes.  This 
individual,  although  since  his  accession  to  prosperity 
the  possessor  of  the  neighbouring  hall  and  of  the 
manorial  lands  of  the  village,  has  been  residing  abroad. 
Just  at  this  time  however  there  are  workmen  up  at  the 
dark  old  place,  and  a rumour  spreads  that  the  absentees 
are  about  to  return.  This  rumour,  as  a matter  of  course, 
stirs  up  afresh  rankling  memories  in  the  breast  of  the 
recluse,  and  awakens  there  old  griefs.  But  with  the 
group  of  associated  recollections  that  come  crowding 
forth,  there  is  one  of  the  child  Maud,  who  was  in 
happier  days  his  merry  playfellow.  She  will  now 
however  be  a child  no  longer.  She  will  return  as  the 
lady  mistress  of  the  mansion  (being  the  only  daughter 
of  the  Squire,  who  is  a widower).  What  will  she  be 
like?  He,  who  wonders,  has  heard  somewhere  that 
she  is  singularly  beautiful.  But  what  is  this  to  him  ? 
Even  while  he  thinks  of  her,  he  feels  a chill  presentiment, 
suggested  no  doubt  by  her  close  relationship  to  one  who 
he  considered  had  already  worked  him  so  much  harm, 
that  she  will  bring  with  her  a curse  for  him.” 

I shall  never  forget  his  last  reading1  of  “ Maud,”  on 
August  24th,  1892.  He  was  sitting  in  his  high-backed 
chair,  fronting  a southern  window  which  looks  over  the 
groves  and  yellow  cornfields  of  Sussex  toward  the  long 
line  of  South  Downs  that  stretches  from  Arundel  to 
Hastings  (his  high-domed  Rembrandt-like  head  outlined 
against  the  sunset-clouds  seen  through  the  western 
window).  His  voice,  low  and  calm  in  everyday  life, 
capable  of  delicate  and  manifold  inflection,  but  with 

1 He  owned  that  “ Some  of  the  passages  are  hard  to  read  because  they 
have  to  be  taken  in  one  breath  and  require  good  lungs.” 


396  “ MAUD.”  [l855 

“ organ-tones  ” of  great  power  and  range,  thoroughly 
brought  out  the  drama  of  the  poem.  You  were  at  once 
put  in  sympathy  with  the  hero.  As  he  said  himself, 
“ This  poem  is  a little  Hamlet ,”  the  history  of  a morbid 
poetic  soul,  under  the  blighting  influence  of  a recklessly 
speculative  age.  He  is  the  heir  of  madness,  an  egotist 
with  the  makings  of  a cynic,  raised  to  sanity  by  a pure 
and  holy  love  which  elevates  his  whole  nature,  passing 
from  the  height  of  triumph  to  the  lowest  depth  of 
misery,  driven  into  madness  by  the  loss  of  her  whom 
he  has  loved,  and,  when  he  has  at  length  passed  through 
the  fiery  furnace,  and  has  recovered  his  reason,  giving 
himself  up  to  work  for  the  good  of  mankind  through 
the  unselfishness  born  of  his  great  passion.  My  father 
pointed  out  that  even  Nature  at  first  presented  herself 
to  the  man  in  sad  visions. 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin’d  woodlands  drove 
thro’  the  air. 

The  “ blood-red  heath  ” too  is  an  exaggeration  of  colour ; 
and  his  suspicion  that  all  the  world  is  against  him 
is  as  true  to  his  nature  as  the  mood  when  he  is 
“ fantastically  merry.”  “The  peculiarity  of  this  poem,” 
my  father  added,  “ is  that  different  phases  of  passion  in 
one  person  take  the  place  of  different  characters.” 

The  passion  in  the  first  Canto  was  given  by  my  father 
in  a sort  of  rushing  recitative  through  the  long  sweeping 
lines  of  satire  and  invective  against  the  greed  for  money, 
and  of  horror  at  the  consequences  of  the  war  of  the 
hearth. 

Then  comes  the  first  sight  of  Maud,  and  “visions 
of  the  night,”  and  in  Canto  iv.  a longing  for  calm, 
the  reaction  after  a mood  of  bitterness,  and  yearning 
for 

A philosopher’s  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways. 


1855]  READING  OF  THE  POEM.  397 

But  the  clarion  call  of  the  “ voice  by  the  cedar  tree  ” 
singing 

A passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

awakens  a love  in  the  heart  which  revolutionizes  and 
inspires  the  whole  life.  In  Canto  xi.  my  father  ex- 
pressed the  longing  for  love  in 

O let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet: 

in  Canto  xvn.  the  exultation  of  love,  knowing  that  it  is 
returned : 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields. 

But  this  blessedness  is  so  intense  that  it  borders  on 
sadness,  and  my  father’s  voice  would  break  down  when 
he  came  to 

I have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Joy  culminates  in  “Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,” 
and  my  father’s  eyes,  which  were  through  the  other  love- 
passages  veiled  by  his  drooping  lids,  would  suddenly 
flash  as  he  looked  up  and  spoke  these  words,  the 
passion  in  his  voice  deepening  in  the  last  words  of  the 
stanza. 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a tread, 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I lain  for  a century  dead ; 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


39$  “ MAUD.”  [l855 

Then  we  heard  after  the  duel  the  terrible  wail  of 
agony  and  despair  in 

The  fault  was  mine, 

and  the  depth  of  forlorn  misery  in 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

when  the  man  feels  that  he  is  going  mad,  both  read  with 
slow  solemnity:  then  the  delirious  madness  of 

O me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me  deep  enough  ? 

The  lyrics  in  “ Maud  ” which  my  father  himself 
liked  best  were 

I have  led  her  home, 

and  O that  ’twere  possible, 

and  Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

About  the  mad-scene  one  of  the  best-known  doctors 
for  the  insane  wrote  that  it  was  “ the  most  faithful 
representation  of  madness  since  Shakespeare.” 

It  is  notable  that  two  such  appreciative  critics  as 
Mr  Gladstone  and  Dr  Van  Dyke  wholly  misapprehended 
the  meaning  of  “ Maud  ” until  they  heard  my  father  read 
it,  and  that  they  both  then  publicly  recanted  their  first 
criticisms.  “ No  one  but  a noble-minded  man  would 
have  done  that  ” my  father  would  say  of  Mr  Gladstone. 
Dr  Van  Dyke’s  recantation  he  did  not  live  to  read1. 

Mr  Gladstone’s  recantation  runs  thus : 

I can  now  see,  and  I at  once  confess,  that  a feeling,  which  had 
reference  to  the  growth  of  the  war-spirit  in  the  outer  world  at 
the  date  of  this  article  ( Quarterly  Review , 1855),  dislocated  my 

1 When  Fanny  Kemble  heard  that  my  father  read  his  “Maud”  finely, 
she  wrote  : “ I do  not  think  any  reading  of  Tennyson’s  can  ever  be  as  striking 
and  impressive  as  that  1 Curse  of  Boadicea 1 that  he  intoned  to  us,  while  the 
oak  trees  were  writhing  in  the  storm  that  lashed  the  windows  and  swept 
over  Blackdown  the  day  we  were  there.”  (Unpublished  MS.) 


1855] 


Gladstone’s  misapprehension. 


399 


frame  of  mind,  and  disabled  me  from  dealing  even  tolerably  with 
the  work  as  a work  of  imagination.  Whether  it  is  to  be  desired 
that  a poem  should  require  from  common  men  a good  deal 
of  effort  in  order  to  comprehend  it;  whether  all  that  is  put  into 
the  mouth  of  the  Soliloquist  in  “ Maud  ” is  within  the  lines  of 
poetical  verisimilitude,  whether  this  poem  has  the  full  moral 
equilibrium  which  is  so  marked  a characteristic  of  the  sister- 
works;  are  questions  open,  perhaps,  to  discussion.  But  I have 
neither  done  justice  in  the  text  to  its  rich  and  copious  beauties 
of  detail,  nor  to  its  great  lyrical  and  metrical  power.  And  what 
is  worse,  I have  failed  to  comprehend  rightly  the  relation 
between  particular  passages  in  the  poem  and  its  general  scope. 
This  is,  I conceive,  not  to  set  forth  any  coherent  strain,  but  to 
use  for  poetical  ends  all  the  moods  and  phases  allowable  under 
the  laws  of  the  art,  in  a special  form  of  character,  which  is 
impassioned,  fluctuating  and  ill-grounded.  The  design,  which 
seems  to  resemble  that  of  the  Ecclesiastes  in  another  sphere, 
is  arduous;  but  Mr  Tennyson’s  power  of  execution  is  probably 
nowhere  greater.  Even  as  regards  the  passages  devoted  to 
war-frenzy,  equity  should  have  reminded  me  of  the  fine  lines  in 
the  latter  portion  of  x.  3 (Part  1),  and  of  the  emphatic  words 
v.  10  (Part  11) : 

I swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 

Are  scarcely  even  akin. 

W.  E.  G.  1878  \ 

Among  the  few  who  recognized  merit  in  “ Maud  ” 
were  Henry  Taylor,  Jowett  and  the  Brownings. 


From  Henry  Taylor. 

Colonial  Office,  London, 

31st  July,  1855. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

I thank  you  much  for  sending  me  “ Maud.”  I have 
only  read  it  twice,  but  I have  already  a strong  feeling  of  what  it 
is.  I say  a feeling  and  not  an  opinion,  for  I am  always  disposed 
to  have  as  little  as  possible  to  say  to  opinions  in  matters  poetical. 


1 Gladstone’s  Gleanings , Vol.  n. 


400  “ MAUD.”  [l855 

I felt  the  passion  of  it  and  the  poetic  spirit  that  is  in  it,  and  the 
poetic  spirit  that  it  seemed  in  some  measure  to  bring  back  unto 
me.  I am  glad  that  there  is  some  one  living  who  can  do  me 
that  service  and  glad  that  you  are  he. 

Ever  yours  sincerely,  H.  Taylor. 

In  December  Jowett  writes: 

I want  to  tell  you  how  greatly  I admire  “ Maud.”  No  poem 
since  Shakespeare  seems  to  show  equal  power  of  the  same 
kind,  or  equal  knowledge  of  human  nature.  No  modern  poem 
contains  more  lines  that  ring  in  the  ears  of  men.  I do  not 
know  any  verse  out  of  Shakespeare  in  which  the  ecstasy  of  love 
soars  to  such  a height. 

He  adds  that  the  critics  have  “ confused  the  hero 
with  the  author1.” 

Some  of  the  reviews  accused  him  of  loving  war, 

1 I take  from  Dr  Mann,  with  some  condensation,  the  following  remarks 
about  “ Maud,”  because  in  the  light  of  present  criticism  they  are  curious. 
“ One  member  of  the  fraternity  of  critics  immediately  pronounced  the 
poem  to  be  a 1 spasm,’  another  acutely  discovered  that  it  was  a ‘ careless, 
visionary,  and  unreal  allegory  of  the  Russian  War.’  A third  could  not 
quite  make  up  his  mind  whether  the  adjective  * mud 1 or  6 mad  ’ would 
best  apply  to  the  work,  but  thought,  as  there  was  only  one  small  vowel 
redundant  in  the  title  in  either  case,  both  might  do.  A fourth  found  that 
the  ‘ mud  ’ concealed  ‘ irony  ’ ; and  the  fifth,  leaning  rather  to  the  mad 
hypothesis,  nevertheless  held  that  the  madness  was  only  assumed  as 
an  excuse  for  pitching  the  tone  of  the  poetry  in  • a key  of  extravagant 
sensibility.’  Others  of  the  multifold  judgments  were  of  opinion  that 
it  was  ‘ a political  fever,’  an  ‘ epidemic  caught  from  the  prevalent  care- 
lessness of  thought  and  rambling  contemplativeness  of  the  time  ’ ; ‘ obscurity 
mistaken  for  profundity,’  ‘ the  dead  level  of  prose  run  mad  ’ ; i absurdity 
such  as  even  partial  friendship  must  blush  to  tolerate,’  i rampant  and 
rabid  bloodthirstiness  of  soul.’  These  are  but  a few  of  the  pleasant 
suggestions  which  critical  acumen  brought  forward  as  its  explanations  of  the 
inspiration  of  numbers  that  must  nevertheless  be  musicaL” 

Maud  Vindicated. 

One  of  the  anonymous  letters  my  father  received  he  enjoyed  repeating 
with  a humorous  intonation  : 

Sir,  I used  to  worship  you,  but  now  I hate  you.  I loathe  and  detest 
you.  You  beast  ! So  you’ve  taken  to  imitating  Longfellow. 

Yours  in  aversion  * * *. 


1855]  HIS  OPINIONS  ON  WAR.  401 

and  urging  the  country  to  war,  charges  which  he 
sufficiently  answered  in  the  “ Epilogue  to  the  Heavy 
Brigade,”  ending  with  these  lines: 

And  here  the  singer  for  his  Art 
Not  all  in  vain  may  plead, 

The  song  that  nerves  a nation’s  heart 
Is  in  itself  a deed. 

The  truth  is  that  though  he  advocated  the  war  of  defence 
and  of  liberty,  and  often  said,  “ Peace  at  all  price  implies 
war  at  all  cost,”  no  one  loathed  war  more  than  he  did,  or 
looked  forward  more  passionately  to  the 

Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world, 

when  the  earth  at  last  should  be  one. 

A warless  world,  a single  race,  a single  tongue, 
I have  seen  her  far  away,  for  is  not  Earth  as  yet  so 
young  ? 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  serpent  passion 
kill’d, 

Every  grim  ravine  a garden,  every  blazing  desert  till’d, 
Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole  she 
smiles, 

Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  isles 1. 

What  even  his  hero  in  “ Maud  ” says  is  only  that  the 
sins  of  the  nation,  “ civil  war  ” as  he  calls  them,  are 
deadlier  in  their  effect  than  what  is  commonly  called  war, 
and  that  they  may  be  in  a measure  subdued  by  the  war 
between  nations  which  is  an  evil  more  easily  recognized. 

At  first  my  father  was  nettled  by  these  captious  re- 
marks of  the  “ indolent  reviewers,”  but  afterwards  would 
take  no  notice  of  them,  except  to  speak  of  them  in  a 
half-pitiful,  half-humorous,  half-mournful  manner.  About 

1 This  line  he  held  to  be  one  of  the  best  of  the  kind  he  had  ever  written. 

26 


t.  1. 


402  “MAUD.”  [l855 

“ Maud  ” and  other  monodramatic  poems  (the  stories  of 
which  were  his  own  creation)  he  said  to  me:  “ In  a certain 
way,  no  doubt,  poets  and  novelists,  however  dramatic 
they  are,  give  themselves  in  their  works.  The  mistake 
that  people  make  is  that  they  think  the  poet’s  poems  are  a 
kind  of  ‘ catalogue  raisonne  ’ of  his  very  own  self,  and  of 
all  the  facts  of  his  life,  not  seeing  that  they  often  only 
express  a poetic  instinct,  or  judgment  on  character  real 
or  imagined,  and  on  the  facts  of  lives  real  or  imagined. 
Of  course  some  poems,  like  my  ‘ Ode  to  Memory,’  are 
evidently  based  on  the  poet’s  own  nature,  and  on  hints 
from  his  own  life.” 

The  poem  was  first  entitled  “ Maud  or  the  Madness.” 
My  father  thought  that  part  of  the  misunderstanding  of 
“ Maud  ” had  arisen  from  a misconception  of  the  story, 
so  left  me  the  following  MS  headings  and  notes. 


Part  I. 


Sections 

I.  Before  the  arrival  of  Maud. 

II.  First  sight  of  Maud. 

III.  Visions  of  the  night.  The  broad-flung  ship- 

wrecking roar.  In  the  Isle  of  Wioht  the 
roar  can  be  heard  nine  miles  away  from  the 
beach.  (Many  of  the  descriptions  of  Nature 
are  taken  from  observations  of  natural  phe- 
nomena at  Farringford,  although  the  localities 
in  the  poem  are  all  imaginary.) 

IV.  Mood  of  bitterness  after  fancied  disdain. 

V.  He  fights  against  his  growing  passion. 

VI.  First  interview  with  Maud. 


1855] 


NOTES  ON  THE  POEM. 


403 


VII.  He  remembers  his  own  and  her  father  talking 
just  before  the  birth  of  Maud. 

VIII.  That  she  did  not  return  his  love. 

IX.  First  sight  of  the  young  lord. 

X.  The  Westminster  Review  said  this  was  an 
attack  on  John  Bright.  I did  not  know  at 
the  time  that  he  was  a Quaker.  (It  was  not 
against  Quakers  but  against  peace-at-all-price 
men  that  the  hero  fulminates.) 

XI.  This  was  originally  verse  111.  but  I omitted  it. 

Will  she  smile  if  he  presses  her  hand, 

This  lord-captain  up  at  the  Hall  ? 

Captain!  he  to  hold  a command! 

He  can  hold  a cue,  he  can  pocket  a ball; 
And  sure  not  a bantam  cockerel  lives 
With  a weaker  crow  upon  English  land, 
Whether  he  boast  of  a horse  that  gains, 

Or  cackle  his  own  applause 

What  use  for  a single  mouth  to  rage 
At  the  rotten  creak  of  the  State-machine ; 
Tho’  it  makes  friends  weep  and  enemies  smile, 
That  here  in  the  face  of  a watchful  age, 

The  sons  of  a gray-beard-ridden  isle 
Should  dance  in  a round  of  an  old  routine. 

XII.  Interview  with  Maud. 

“ Maud,  Maud,  Maud  ” is  like  the  rook’s  caw. 
“ Maud  is  here,  here,  here  ” is  like  the  call  of 
the  little  birds. 

XIII.  Mainly  prophetic.  He  sees  Maud’s  brother 
who  will  not  recognize  him. 

XVI.  He  will  declare  his  love. 


4°4 

XVII. 

XVIII. 


XXI. 

XXII. 

Sections 

I. 

II. 


III. 

IV. 


V. 


“ MAUD.”  [l855 

Accepted. 

Happy.  The  sigh  in  the  cedar  branches  seems 
to  chime  in  with  his  own  yearning. 

“ Sad  astrology  ” is  modern  astronomy,  for  of 
old  astrology  was  thought  to  sympathize  with 
and  rule  man’s  fate. 

Not  die  biit  live  a life  of  truest  breath . This  is 
the  central  idea,  the  holy  power  of  Love. 

Before  the  Ball. 

In  the  Hall-Garden. 


Part  II. 

The  Phantom  (after  the  duel  with  Maud’s 
brother). 

In  Brittany.  The  shell  undestroyed  amid  the 
storm  perhaps  symbolizes  to  him  his  own 
first  and  highest  nature  preserved  amid  the 
storms  of  passion. 

He  felt  himself  going  mad. 

Haunted  after  Maud’s  death. 

“ O that  ’twere  possible  ” appeared  first  in  the 
Keepsake.  Sir  John  Simeon  years  after 
begged  me  to  weave  a story  round  this 
poem  and  so  “ Maud  ” came  into  being. 

In  the  mad-house. 

The  second  corpse  is  Maud’s  brother,  the 
lover’s  father  being  the  first  corpse,  whom 
the  lover  thinks  that  Maud’s  father  has 
murdered. 


1855] 


405 


LETTERS  ABOUT  “MAUD.” 

Part  III. 

VI.  Sane  but  shattered.  Written  when  the  cannon 
was  heard  booming  from  the  battle-ships  in 
the  Solent  before  the  Crimean  War. 


Letters  to  and  from  friends , 1854-55. 


To  Gerald  Massey . 


Freshwater,  I.  of  Wight, 

April  1st,  1854. 

My  dear  Sir, 

In  consequence  of  my  change  of  residence  I 
did  not  receive  your  captivating  volume  till  yesterday. 
I am  no  reader  of  papers  and  Reviews  and  I had  not 
seen,  nor  even  heard  of  any  of  your  poems : my  joy  was 
all  the  fresher  and  the  greater  in  thus  suddenly  coming 
on  a poet  of  such  fine  lyrical  impulse,  and  of  so  rich 
half-oriental  an  imagination.  It  must  be  granted  that 
you  make  our  good  old  English  tongue  crack  and  sweat 
for  it  occasionally,  but  time  will  chasten  all  that.  Go  on 
and  prosper,  and  believe  me  grateful  for  your  gift,  and 

Yours  most  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 


Letters  to  Dr  Mann , author  of  “ Maud  Vindicated ’” 

1855- 

Thanks  for  your  Vindication . No  one  with  this 
essay  before  him  can  in  future  pretend  to  misunderstand 
my  dramatic  poem,  “Maud”:  your  commentary  is  as 
true  as  it  is  full,  and  I am  really  obliged  to  you  for 
defending  me  against  the  egregiously  nonsensical  im- 
putation of  having  attacked  the  Quakers  or  Mr  Bright: 
you  are  not  aware,  perhaps,  that  another  wiseacre  ac- 
cused me  of  calling  Mr  Layard  an  “Assyrian  Bull ! ” 

Yours  very  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 


406 


LETTERS  ABOUT  “MAUD,”  ETC. 


[l855 

Without  the  prestige  of  Shakespeare,  Hamlet  (if 
it  came  out  now)  would  be  treated  in  just  the  same 
way,  so  that  one  ought  not  to  care  for  their  cackling, 
not  that  I am  comparing  poor  little  “ Maud  ” to  the 
Prince,  except  as,  what’s  the  old  quotation  out  of  Virgil, 
sic  parvis  componere , etc.  Would  it  not  be  better  that 
all  literary  criticisms  should  be  signed  with  the  name  or 
at  least  the  initials  of  the  writer?  To  sign  political 
articles  would  be  perhaps  unadvisable  and  inconvenient, 
but  my  opinion  is  that  we  shall  never  have  a good  school 
of  criticism  in  England  while  the  writer  is  anonymous 
and  irresponsible. 

Believe  me  yours  ever,  A.  T. 


I am  delighted  with  Miss  Sewell’s  gift1,  tho’  yet 
unseen.  I should  like  as  I have  told  her  to  learn  some- 
thing of  the  history  of  the  naming  of  it:  can  you  tell 
me  anything  ? Please  get  it  framed,  we  shall  be  half  a 
year  getting  it  done  here.  I think  it  should  not  have 
a great  white  margin  except  the  artist  herself  desires  it. 
Perhaps  the  lake  was  not  called  after  your  humble 
servant  but  another.  I enclose  you  the  note  to  Miss 
Sewell  which  please  deliver  and  read  if  you  choose. 

A.  T. 

I wished  for  you  much  yesterday.  Merwood 2 brought 
me  a lump  of  snake’s  eggs,  and  I picked  carefully  out 
two  little  embryo  snakes  with  bolting  eyes  and  beating 
hearts.  I laid  them  on  a piece  of  white  paper.  Their 
hearts  or  blood-vessels  beat  for  at  least  two  hours  after 
extraction.  Does  not  that  in  some  way  explain  why 
it  is  so  very  difficult  to  kill  a snake  ? I was  so  sorry 
not  to  have  you  and  your  microscope  here. 

A.  T. 

1 Miss  Sewell  had  painted  a picture  of  Lake  Tennyson  in  New  Zealand, 
so  named  by  Sir  Frederick  Weld. 

2 Tenant  at  Farringford  farm. 


1855] 


LETTER  FROM  NEW  SOUTH  WALES. 


407 


From  Mrs  Vyner , a stranger 1. 

River,  New  South  Wales,  1855. 

Dear  Friend, 

I know  that  the  poet’s  life  must  have  its  common- 
place daily  sorrows  and  toils  and  that  there  must  be  moments 
when  he  even  doubts  his  own  gift,  but  I fancy  a poet’s  heart 
must  be  so  large  and  loving  that  he  can  feel  for  and  forgive  even 
folly.  Folly  it  may  be,  and  yet  I must  write  and  thank  you 
with  a true  and  grateful  heart  for  the  happy  moments  your 
thoughts  and  your  pen  have  given  me.  I am  in  the  wildest 
bush  of  Australia,  far  away  from  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and 
endurable  excepting  the  strong  and  stern  sense  of  duty,  the 
consciousness  that  where  God  has  placed  us  is  our  lot  to  be,  and 
that  our  most  becoming  posture  is  to  accept  our  destiny  with 
grateful  humility.  You  must  let  me  tell  you  how  in  a lonely 
home  among  the  mountains,  with  my  young  children  asleep,  my 
husband  absent,  no  sound  to  be  heard  but  the  cry  of  the  wild 
dog  or  the  wail  of  the  curlew,  no  lock  or  bolt  to  guard  our  soli- 
tary hut,  strong  in  our  utter  helplessness  I have  turned  (next  to 
God’s  book)  to  you  as  a friend,  and  read  far  into  the  night  till 
my  lot  seemed  light  and  a joy  seemed  cast  around  my  very 
menial  toils : then  I have  said,  “ God  bless  the  poet  and  put  still 
some  beautiful  words  and  thoughts  into  his  heart,”  and  the 
burthen  of  life  became  pleasant  to  me  or  at  least  easy.  If  you 
are  the  man  I feel  you  must  be  you  will  forgive  this  address  : 
there  are  certain  impulses  which  seem  irresistible,  and  I believe 
these  are  the  genuine,  truthful  moments  of  our  life,  and  such 
an  impulse  has  urged  me  to  write  to  you,  and  I know  that  the 
blessing  of  a faithful  heart  cannot  be  bootless  : and  may  He 
who  seetb  not  as  man  seeth  spare  you  to  plead  the  cause  of  truth 
and  to  spurn  foolish  saws  and  sickly  conventionalities.  Farewell. 

God  bless  you  : always  your  friend, 
Margaret  Anna  Vyner. 

My  father’s  aunt  Mrs  Russell  was  vexed  at  what 
she  thought  an  attack  on  coal-mine  owners  in  “ Maud,” 

1 My  father  was  deeply  touched  by  this  letter : and  kept  it  among  the 
things  he  most  prized. 


408 


LETTERS  ABOUT  “ MAUD,”  ETC. 


[l855 

and  so  he  writes : “ I really  could  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  be  offended  with  such  an  imputation,  for  what 
must  you  think  of  me  if  you  think  me  capable  of  such 
gratuitous  and  unmeaning  personality  and  hostility  ? 
I am  as  sensitive  a person  as  exists,  and  sooner  than 
wound  anyone  in  such  a spiteful  fashion,  would  consent 
never  to  write  a line  again ; yea,  to  have  my  hand  cut 
off  at  the  wrist.  Why,  if  you  had  the  least  suspicion 
that  I had  acted  in  this  way,  did  you  not  inquire  of  me 
before  ? Now  see,  you  the  kindliest  and  tenderest  of 
human  beings,  how  you  have  wronged  me,  and  cherished 
in  your  heart  this  accusation  as  baseless,  no,  more 
baseless,  than  a dream,  for  dreams  have  some  better 
foundation  in  past  things:  but  pray  put  it  all  out  of 
your  head.” 


To  George  Brim  ley. 


Freshwater,  I.  W. 

Nov.  2 %th}  1855. 

Sir, 

I wish  to  assure  you  that  I quite  close  with 
your  commentary  on  “ Maud.”  I may  have  agreed  with 
portions  of  other  critiques  on  the  same  poem,  which  have 
been  sent  to  me ; but  when  I saw  your  notice  I laid  my 
finger  upon  it  and  said,  “ There,  that  is  my  meaning.” 
Poor  little  “ Maud,”  after  having  run  the  gauntlet  of  so 
much  brainless  abuse  and  anonymous  spite,  has  found  a 
critic.  Therefore  believe  her  father  (not  the  gray  old 
wolf)  to  be 


Yours  not  unthankfully,  A.  Tennyson. 


P.S.  But  there  are  two  or  three  points  in  your 
comment  to  which  I should  take  exception,  e.g.  “ The 
writer  of  the  fragments,  etc.,”  surely  the  speaker  or  the 
thinker  rather  than  the  writer ; again,  as  to  the  character 


LETTER  TO  MR  TUCKERMAN. 


409 


1855] 

of  the  love,  do  any  of  the  expressions  “ rapturous,” 
“ painful,”  “ childish,”  however  they  may  apply  to  some  of 
the  poems,  fully  characterize  the  1 8th  ? is  it  not  something 
deeper?  but  perhaps  some  day  I may  discuss  these 
things  with  you,  and  therefore  I will  say  no  more  here, 
except  that  I shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  if  ever  you 
come  to  the  Isle  of  Wight. 


To  F.  G . Tucker  man. 


iSss- 

Dear  Mr  Tuckerman, 

I have  just  returned  home  (i.e.  to  Farringford) 
from  a visit  to  London,  during  which  I called  on  Moxon, 
and  found  your  kind  present  of  books  waiting  for  me.  I 
fear  that  you  must  have  thought  me  neglectful  in  not 
immediately  acknowledging  them : and  so  I should  have 
done  had  I not  been  waiting  to  send  along  with  my 
thanks  a small  volume  of  my  own,  containing  some  of 
the  things  I repeated  to  you  in  my  little  smoking-attic 
here.  These  poems,  when  printed,  I found  needed 
considerable  elision  and  so  the  book  has  hung  on  hand. 

When  I arrived  here  I found  that  my  small  smoking- 
room  did  not  smell  of  smoke  at  all,  nay  was  even  fragrant. 
I could  not  at  first  make  it  out.  At  last  I perceived  it 
was  owing  to  the  Russian  leather  on  your  Webster  which 
you  made  mine.  Even  so  (as  some  one  says), 

“ The  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust”  — 

and  there  was  dust  enough  on  the  table  almost  to  justify 
the  application. 

You  will  find  in  my  little  volume  “ The  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade.”  # # # It  is  not  a poem  on  which 


410  LETTERS  ABOUT  “MAUD,”  ETC.  [l855 

I pique  myself,  but  I cannot  help  fancying  that,  such  as 
it  is,  I have  improved  it. 

Farewell  and  forgive  my  silence  hitherto.  I shall 
always  remember  with  pleasure  your  coming  to  see  me 
in  the  frost  and  our  pleasant  talk  together.  Did  you  see 
in  your  paper  that  the  Oxford  University  would  make  me 
a Doctor  the  other  day,  and  how  the  young  men  shouted  ? 

I am,  dear  Mr  Tuckerman, 

Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


To  the  Rev . G>  G.  Bradley  k 

Farringford, 

August  25  th,  1855. 


Dear  Mr  Bradley, 

Many  thanks  for  the  Arnold : nobody  can 
deny  that  he  is  a poet.  “ The  Merman  ” was  an  old 
favourite  of  mine,  and  I like  him  as  well  as  ever.  “ The 
Scholar  Gipsy  ” is  quite  new  to  me,  and  I have  already 
an  affection  for  him,  which  I think  will  increase.  There 
are  several  others  which  seem  very  good,  so  that  alto- 
gether I may  say  that  you  have  conferred  a great  boon 
upon  me.  I have  received  a Scotch  paper,  in  which  it  is 
stated  that  poor  “ Maud  ” is  to  be  slashed  all  to  pieces 
by  that  mighty  man,  that  pompholygous,  broad-blown 
Apollodorus,  the  gifted  X.  Her  best  friends  do  not 
expect  her  to  survive  it! 

I am  yours  very  truly, 

A.  Tennyson. 


1 Dean  of  Westminster. 


1855]  LETTERS  FROM  RUSKIN  AND  HERBERT  SPENCER.  4 1 I 

From  J.  Ruskin . 

Denmark  Hill,  12  th  November,  1855. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I hear  of  so  many  stupid  and  feelingless  misunder- 
standings of  “ Maud  ” that  I think  it  may  perhaps  give  you  some 
little  pleasure  to  know  my  sincere  admiration  of  it  throughout. 

I do  not  like  its  versification  so  well  as  much  of  your  other 
work,  not  because  I do  not  think  it  good  of  its  kind,  but  because 
I do  not  think  that  wild  kind  quite  so  good,  and  I am  sorry  to 
have  another  cloud  put  into  the  sky  of  one’s  thoughts  by  the  sad 
story,  but  as  to  the  general  bearing  and  delicate  finish  of  the 
thing  in  its  way,  I think  no  admiration  can  be  extravagant. 

It  is  a compliment  to  myself,  not  to  you,  if  I say  that  I think 
with  you  in  all  things  about  the  war. 

I am  very  sorry  you  put  the  “Some  one  had  blundered  ” out 
of  the  “Light  Brigade1.” 

It  was  precisely  the  most  tragical  line  in  the  poem.  It  is  as 
true  to  its  history  as  essential  to  its  tragedy. 

Believe  me  sincerely  yours,  J.  Ruskin. 

From  Herbert  Spencer  ( about  “ The  Two  Voices”). 

7 Marlborough  Gardens, 

St  John’s  Wood,  London,  1855. 

Sir, 

I happened  recently  to  be  re-reading  your  Poem 
“The  Two  Voices,”  and  coming  to  the  verse 

Or  if  thro’  lower  lives  I came — - 
Tho’  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

it  occurred  to  me  that  you  might  like  to  glance  through  a book 
which  applies  to  the  elucidation  of  mental  science,  the  hypothesis 
to  which  you  refer.  I therefore  beg  your  acceptance  of  Psychology 
which  I send  by  this  post. 

With  much  sympathy  yours, 

Herbert  Spencer. 

1 Some  friends  of  excellent  critical  judgment  prevailed  upon  him  to  omit 
this  phrase  which  was  however  soon  re-inserted : for  it  was  originally  the 
keynote  of  the  poem. 


412  THE  PURCHASE  OF  FARRINGFORD.  [1855 

With  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  “ Maud”  Farringford 
was  bought,  and  my  mother’s  journal  says  : 

April  24 th,  1856.  This  morning  a letter  came  from 
Mr  G.  S.  Venables  saying  that  Mr  Chapman  pronounced 
the  title  of  Farringford  good.  We  have  agreed  to  buy, 
so  I suppose  this  ivied  home  among  the  pine-trees  is 
ours.  Went  to  our  withy  holt:  such  beautiful  blue 
hyacinths,  orchises,  primroses,  daisies,  marsh-marigolds 
and  cuckoo-flowers.  Wild  cherry  trees  too  with  single 
snowy  blossom,  and  the  hawthorns  white  with  their 
“ pearls  of  May.”  The  park  has  for  many  days  been  rich 
with  cowslips  and  furze  in  bloom.  The  elms  are  a 
golden  wreath  at  the  foot  of  the  down ; to  the  north  of 
the  house  the  mespilus  and  horse-chestnut  are  in  flower 
and  the  apple-trees  are  covered  with  rosy  buds.  A.  dug 
the  bed  ready  for  the  rhododendrons.  A thrush  was 
singing  among  the  nightingales  and  other  birds,  as  he 
said  “ mad  with  joy.”  At  sunset,  the  golden  green  of  the 
trees,  the  burning  splendour  of  Blackgang  Chine  and 
St  Catharine’s,  and  the  red  bank  of  the  primeval  river, 
contrasted  with  the  turkis-blue  of  the  sea  (that  is  our 
view  from  the  drawing-room),  make  altogether  a miracle 
of  beauty.  We  are  glad  that  Farringford  is  ours. 


FARRINGFORD 


CHAPTER  XX. 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING.” 
1856-1859. 

A thousand  thanks  for  your  charming  letter  from  the  Isle  of  Wight  with 
suggestive  date  of  Bonchurch  (the  only  church  you  went  to  that  day),  and 
the  spirited  outline  sketch  of  the  Idyllic  Poet  serenely  ploughing  his  windy 
acres.  How  must  you  have  enjoyed!...  The  “Idylls  (of  the  King)”  area 
brilliant  success.  Rich  tapestries,  wrought  as  only  Tennyson  could  have 
done  them,  and  worthy  to  hang  by  the  Faerie  Queen.  I believe  there  is  no 
discordant  voice  on  this  side  of  the  water. 

(From  H.  W.  Longfellow  to  James  T.  Fields,  1854.) 

1856. 

My  father  went  to  the  Grange  (Lord  Ashburton’s)  in 
January,  and  met  the  Carlyles,  Venables,  Brookfields, 
Tom  Taylors,  Goldwin  Smith  and  Spedding.  Brookfield 
wrote : “ Alfred  has  been  most  cheerful  and  the  life  of 
the  party.”  The  note  by  my  father  is : “ It  seems  a 
house  not  uneasy  to  live  in,  only  I regret  my  little 
fumitory  at  Farringford.  Here  they  smoke  among  the 
oranges,  lemons,  and  camellias....I  cannot  see  in  Lady 
Ashburton  a touch  of  the  haughtiness  which  fame  attri- 
butes to  her.  She  is  most  perfectly  natural,  tho’  like 
enough  she  sometimes  snubs  her  own  grade  now  and 
then,  when  she  sees  presumption  and  folly.  But  as 
Brookfield  said  this  morning,  ‘ She  is  very  loyal  to  her 
printers' ” 

During  the  winter  evenings  of  1855  my  father  would 
translate  the  Odyssey  aloud  into  Biblical  prose  to  my 
mother,  who  writes,  “ Thus  I get  as  much  as  it  is  possible 
to  have  of  the  true  spirit  of  the  original.” 

413 


4H 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l856 

He  had  been  evolving  the  main  scheme  of  the 
“ Idylls  of  the  King  ” at  different  periods  during  the  last 
twenty  years  and  more  : the  Morte  d’Arthur  episode  had 
appeared  in  the  volume  of  1842.  He  resumed  the  plan 
with  “ Merlin  and  Nimue  ” (called  “ Vivien  ”)in  February; 
and  in  the  “ Forest  of  Broceliande  ” are  many  reminis- 
cences of  what  was  now  the  near  scenery  of  the  New 
Forest1.  This  Idyll  was  finished  by  March  31st,  and 
“ Geraint  and  Enid  ” begun  on  April  16th. 

Meantime  for  daily  exercise  he  planted  trees  and 
shrubs ; rolled  the  lawn  and  dug  in  the  kitchen  garden, 
taking  all  the  while  a loving  note  of  Nature.  Thus  as 
he  was  digging  one  day  a well-known  line  formed  itself : 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s  toil. 

Farringford  being  now  his  property,  the  Twickenham 
furniture  was  brought  over  to  the  new  home.  As  it 
was  unpacked,  my  father’s  eye  was  struck  by  a certain 
crimson-covered  sofa  and  some  oak  chairs  grouped  to- 
gether in  the  farmyard  in  front  of  the  old  thatched 
farmstead  and  the  ivy-covered  wall  through  which  the 
kitchen  garden  is  entered.  “ What  a picture  it  would 
make ! ” he  said ; repeating  his  new  song  in  “ Enid,” 
that  then  for  the  first  time  came  to  him: 

Turn  fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the  proud. 

Presently,  within  doors,  while  the  books  were  being 
sorted  and  rearranged,  all  imaginable  things  strewed  over 
the  drawing-room  floor,  and  the  chairs  and  tables  in  wild 
disarray,  Prince  Albert  called.  He  had  driven  over 
suddenly  from  Osborne.  The  parlour-maid  went  to  the 
front  door,  heard  the  Prince’s  name  announced,  and,  being 
bewildered  and  not  knowing  into  what  room  to  show  him, 
stood  stock  still ; so  the  Equerry,  I have  been  told,  took 

1 On  one  occasion  he  stayed  in  the  New  Forest  with  his  friend,  the  well- 
known  ornithologist,  Lord  Lilford,  in  order  to  observe  the  bird-life  there. 


1856]  VISIT  OF  PRINCE  ALBERT.  415 

her  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  her  round,  bidding  her 
lead  them  in.  The  Prince  expressed  great  admiration  of 
the  view  from  the  drawing-room  window,  and  one  of  the 
party  gathered  a bunch  of  cowslips  which  H.  R.  H.  said 
he  must  take  to  the  Queen. 

From  the  first  the  Prince  was  very  cordial,  and 
impressed  my  father  as  being  a man  of  strong  and 
self-sacrificing  nature. 

In  June  news  came  that  R.’s  bank  would  probably 
break  and  that  all  my  fathers  little  savings  might  be  lost. 
On  July  2nd  my  mother  wrote:  “A.  showed  a noble 
disregard  of  money,  much  as  the  loss  would  affect  us.” 
That  evening,  so  as  to  give  her  courage,  he  asked  her 
to  play  and  sing  the  grand  Welsh  national  air,  “ Come 
to  battle  ” : and  afterwards,  to  divert  themselves  from 
dwelling  on  the  possible  loss,  they  hung  their  Michael 
Angelo  engravings  round  the  drawing-room. 

In  July  and  August  my  father  and  mother  took  us 
children  to  Wales,  and  here  “ Enid  ” was  all  but  finished. 
We  stayed  at  Llangollen,  then  at  Dolgelly,  and  at  Bar- 
mouth. My  father  spoke  of  “ the  high  rejoicing  lines  of 
Cader  Idris.”  My  mother  wrote  : “Sept.  8th.  A.  climbed 
Cader  Idris.  Pouring  rain  came  on.  I and  the  children 
waited  a long  time  for  him.  I heard  the  roar  of  waters, 
streams  and  cataracts,  and  I never  saw  anything  more 
awful  than  that  great  veil  of  rain  drawn  straight  over 
Cader  Idris,  pale  light  at  the  lower  edge.  It  looked  as 
if  death  were  behind  it,  and  made  me  shudder  when  I 
thought  he  was  there.  A message  came  from  him  by  the 
guide  that  he  had  gone  to  Dolgelly.” 

It  was  near  Festiniog  that  he  heard  the  roar  of  a 
cataract  above  the  roar  of  the  torrent,  and  wrote  that 
Virodlian  simile: 

O 

For  as  one, 

That  listens  near  a torrent  mountain-brook, 

All  thro’  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  hears 


416 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.” 


[l856 


The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  hear 
His  voice  in  battle. 

He  particularly  admired  the  still  pools  of  the  torrent 
in  the  “ Torrent  Walk  ” at  Dolgelly,  and  the  mysterious 
giant  steps  of  Cwn  Bychan.  Harlech,  Festiniog,  Llanid- 
loes, Builth,  Caerleon  were  the  next  halting-places ; and 
on  September  16th  he  wrote:  “The  Usk  murmurs  by 
the  windows,  and  I sit  like  King  Arthur  in  Caerleon. 
This  is  a most  quiet,  half-ruined  village  of  about  1500 
inhabitants  with  a little  museum  of  Roman  tombstones 
and  other  things.”  From  Caerleon  he  made  expeditions 
to  Caerphilly,  Merthyr  Tydvil,  Raglan;  and  then  we 
all  returned  by  Brecon,  Gloucester  and  Salisbury  home. 
With  the  help  of  local  schoolmasters  in  Wales  my 
parents  had  learned  some  Welsh,  and  now  read  together 
the  Hanes  Cymru  (Welsh  History),  the  Mabinogion  and 
Llywarch  Hen . 

On  Dec.  31st  a characteristic  letter  was  sent  to  a 
stranger  who  had  forwarded  a volume  of  verse : 

I have  as  you  desired  considered  your  poem,  and 
though  I make  it  a rule  to  decline  passing  any  judgment 
on  poems,  I cannot  in  this  instance  refrain  from  giving 
you  a word  of  advice. 

Follow  your  calling  diligently,  for  be  assured,  work, 
far  from  being  a hardship,  is  a blessing,  and  if  you  are 
a poet  indeed,  you  will  find  in  it  a help  not  a hindrance. 
You  might,  if  you  chose,  offer  these  lines  to  some  maga- 
zine, but  you  must  not  be  surprised  if  they  are  refused, 
for  the  poetic  gift  is  so  common  in  these  days  that 
hundreds  must  have  to  endure  this  disappointment,  and 
I should  not  be  an  honest  friend  if  I did  not  prepare  you 
for  that. 

I should  by  no  means  recommend  you  to  risk  the 
publication  of  a volume  on  your  own  account.  The 


LETTER  FROM  MRS  CARLYLE. 


417 


1857] 

publication  of  verse  is  almost  always  attended  with  loss. 
As  an  amusement  to  yourself  and  your  friends,  the 
writing  is  all  very  well.  Accept  my  good  wishes  and 
believe  me, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

A.  Tennyson. 


1857. 

An  invitation  was  sent  in  January  to  Mr  and 
Mrs  Carlyle.  The  latter  answered: 

5 Cheyne  Road,  Chelsea, 

21st  January , 1857. 

My  dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 

You  are  a darling  woman  to  have  gone  and  written 
tome  on  the  “voluntary  principle”  such  a kind  little  note! 
You  to  have  been  at  the  trouble  to  know  that  I was  ill ! You  to 
express  regret  at  my  illness.  I feel  both  surprised  and  gratified, 
as  if  I were  an  obsolete  word  that  some  great  Poet  (Alfred 
Tennyson  for  example)  had  taken  a notion  to  look  up  in  the 
Dictionary. 

In  London , when  one  is  sick,  especially  when  one  continues 
sick  for  three  months,  one  falls  so  out  of  thought ! it  is  much  if 
even  your  female  friend,  in  the  next  street,  do  not  weary  of  you 
and  then  forget  you  ! I say  female  advisedly  for,  to  give  the 
Devil  his  due,  I find  that  men  hold  out  longer  than  women 
against  the  loss  of  one’s  “powers  of  pleasing.” 

Now  however  I begin  to  be  about : and  have  no  longer  the 
pretext  of  illness  for  straining  what  Mr  Carlyle  calls  “ the 
inestimable  privilege  of  being  as  ugly  and  stupid  and  disagree- 
able as  ever  one  likes  ! ” and  my  friends  drop  in  more  frequently 
and  sit  much  longer  ! 

The  heartiest  thanks  for  your  invitation  to  Freshwater. 

Wouldn’t  I like  to  go  and  visit  you  if  that  man  would  leave 
his  eternal  Frederick  and  come  along  ! nay  wouldn’t  I like  to  go 
on  my  own  small  basis,  if  only  I had  the  nerve  for  it,  which  I 
have  not  yet ! He  goes  nowhere,  sees  nobody,  only  for  two 

27 


T.  I. 


418  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l857 

hours  a day  he  rides,  like  the  wild  German  Hunter,  on  a horse 
he  has  bought,  and  which  seems  to  like  the  sort  of  thing  ! Such 
a horse ! he  (not  the  horse)  never  wearies,  in  the  intervals  of 
Frederick , of  celebrating  the  creature’s  “ good  sense,  courage 
and  sensibility  ! ” “ Not  once,”  he  says,  “ has  the  creature 

shown  the  slightest  disagreement  from  him  in  any  question  of  In- 
tellect” (more  than  can  be  said  of  most  living  Bipeds)!  I wrote  to 
a relation  in  Scotland,  “ If  this  horse  of  Mr  C.’s  dies,  he  will 
certainly  write  its  biography,”  and  that  very  day  he  said  to  me, 
“ My  dear,  I wish  I could  find  out  about  the  genealogy  of  that 
horse  of  mine  ! and  some  particulars  of  its  life ! I am  begin- 
ning to  feel  sure  it  is  a Cockney.” 

Poor  Lady  Ashburton  has  made  nothing  by  leaving  the 
Grange  deserted  this  winter,  she  has  been  quite  ill  ever  since 
she  went  to  Nice. 

May  I offer  my  affectionate  regards  to  your  husband  ? And 
may  I give  yourself  a kiss  ? 

Yours  very  truly, 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle. 


In  April  a report  reached  us  that  Tom  Moore  was 
dying.  A friend  writes : “ This  darling  old  poet  is  only 
just  alive,  mind  and  body.  X goes  over  frequently  to 
see  him  and  read  him  your  poems,  which  he  cries  over 
and  delights  in.” 

“Enid”  and  “ Nimue,  or  The  True  and  the  False” 
were  put  into  print  this  summer. 

In  June  the  American  translator  of  Faust , Bayard 
Taylor,  stayed  at  Farringford  and  was  full  of  talk. 
Among  other  things  he  told  my  father  that  the  most 
beautiful  sight  in  the  world  was  a Norwegian  forest  in 
winter,  sheathed  in  ice,  the  sun  rising  over  it  and 
making  the  whole  landscape  one  rainbow  of  flashing 
diamonds. 

Taylor  published  the  following  account  of  his  visit 
to  us: 


1857] 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  AT  FARRINGFORD. 


419 


As  we  drew  near  Freshwater,  my  coachman  pointed  out 
Farringford,  a cheerful  gray  country  mansion  with  a small  thick- 
grassed  park  before  it,  a grove  behind,  and  beyond  all,  a deep 
shoulder  of  the  chalk  downs,  a gap  in  which,  at  Freshwater, 
showed  the  dark  blue  horizon  of  the  Channel.  Leaving  my 
luggage  at  one  of  the  two  little  inns,  I walked  to  the  house,  with 
lines  from  “ Maud  ” chiming  in  my  mind.  “ The  dry-tongued 
laurel”  shone  glossily  in  the  sun,  the  cedar  “sighed  for 
Lebanon”  on  the  lawn,  and  “the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a 
crescent  of  sea”  glimmered  afar.  I had  not  been  two  minutes 
in  the  drawing-room  before  Tennyson  walked  in.  So  unlike  are 
the  published  portraits  of  him,  that  I was  almost  in  doubt  as  to 
his  identity.  The  engraved  heads  suggest  a moderate  stature, 
but  he  is  tall  and  broad-shouldered  as  a son  of  Anak,  with  hair, 
beard  and  eyes  of  southern  darkness.  Something  in  the  lofty 
brow  and  aquiline  nose  suggests  Dante,  but  such  a deep  mellow 
chest-voice  never  could  have  come  from  Italian  lungs.  He 
proposed  a walk,  as  the  day  was  wonderfully  clear  and  beautiful. 
We  climbed  the  steep  comb  of  the  chalk  cliff,  and  slowly 
wandered  westward  till  we  reached  the  Needles,  at  the  extremity 
of  the  Island  and  some  three  or  four  miles  from  his  residence. 
During  the  conversation  with  which  we  beguiled  the  way,  I was 
struck  with  the  variety  of  his  knowledge.  Not  a little  flower  on 
the  downs,  which  the  sheep  had  spared,  escaped  his  notice,  and 
the  geology  of  the  coast,  both  terrestrial  and  submarine,  was 
perfectly  familiar  to  him.  I thought  of  a remark  I once  heard 
from  the  lips  of  a distinguished  English  author  (Thackeray), 
that  “ Tennyson  was  the  wisest  man  he  knew,”  and  could  well 
believe  that  he  was  sincere  in  making  it. 


July  Q)th.  My  mother  writes  in  her  journal : “A.  has 
brought  me  as  a birthday  present  the  first  two  lines  that 
he  has  made  of  ‘ Guinevere  ’ which  might  be  the  nucleus 
of  a great  poem.  Arthur  is  parting  from  Guinevere  and 
says : 

‘ But  hither  shall  I never  come  again, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side ; see  thee  no  more  : 

Farewell ! ’ ” 


420  HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l857 

July  25 th.  The  following  letter  was  received  from 
Mr  Ruskin  about  the  edition  of  the  Poems  illustrated  by 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  Millais,  Holman  Hunt  and 
others,  in  which  my  father  had  taken  great  interest, 
having  called  on  most  of  the  artists  so  as  to  give  them 
his  views  of  what  the  illustrations  ought  to  be. 

Edinburgh, 

July  24 th,  1857. 

My  dear  Sir, 

It  is  a long  time  since  I have  heard  from  you  and  I 
do  not  like  the  mildew  to  grow  over  what  little  memory  you  may 
have  of  me. 

It  is  however  no  excuse  for  writing  to  say  that  I wanted  to 
congratulate  you  on  the  last  edition  of  your  poems.  Indeed  it 
might  be  and  I hope  will  be  some  day  better  managed,  still 
many  of  the  plates  are  very  noble  things,  though  not,  it  seems 
to  me,  illustrations  of  your  poems. 

I believe  in  fact  that  good  pictures  never  can  be ; they  are 
always  another  poem,  subordinate  but  wholly  different  from  the 
poet’s  conception,  and  serve  chiefly  to  show  the  reader  how 
variously  the  same  verses  may  affect  various  minds.  But  these 
woodcuts  will  be  of  much  use  in  making  people  think  and 
puzzle  a little ; art  was  getting  quite  a matter  of  form  in  book- 
illustrations,  and  it  does  not  so  much  matter  whether  any  given 
vignette  is  right  or  not,  as  whether  it  contains  thought  or  not, 
still  more  whether  it  contains  any  kind  of  plain  facts.  If  people 
have  no  sympathy  with  St  Agnes,  or  if  people  as  soon  as  they 
get  a distinct  idea  of  a living  girl  who  probably  got  scolded  for 
dropping  her  candle-wax  about  the  convent-stairs,  and  caught 
cold  by  looking  too  long  out  of  the  window  in  her  bedgown, 
feel  no  true  sympathy  with  her,  they  can  have  no  sympathy  in 
them. 

But  we  P.  R.  B.’s 1 must  do  better  for  you  than  this  some  day  : 
meantime  I do  congratulate  you  on  “ The  wind  is  blowing  in 
turret  and  tree,”  and  Rossetti’s  Sir  Galahad  and  Lady  of  Shalott, 
and  one  or  two  more. 


1 Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood. 


1857]  TOUR  TO  MANCHESTER,  CONISTON,  ETC.  42 1 


Please  send  me  a single  line  to  Denmark  Hill,  Camberwell, 
and  believe  me 


Faithfully  yours, 

J.  Ruskin. 


This  summer  the  tour  was  to  Manchester,  Coniston, 
Inverary  Castle,  and  Carstairs  (the  home  of  my  father’s 
college  friend  Monteith).  On  this  journey  he  read  aloud 
Tom  Browns  School-Days  to  my  mother,  enjoying  it 
thoroughly. 

When  at  Manchester  my  parents  heard  Dickens 
recite  his  Christmas  Carol. 

A visit  was  made  to  the  Exhibition  held  there,  and 
much  time  spent  in  studying  Holman  Hunt’s  pictures, 
the  Turner  sketches,  Mulready’s  drawings,  and  various 
fine  Gainsboroughs  and  Reynolds. 

Hawthorne  was  in  the  same  room,  and  my  father 
afterwards  expressed  great  regret  that  he  had  not  been 
introduced  to  the  author  of  The  Scarlet  Letter.  Haw- 
thorne wrote : “ Gazing  at  him  with  all  my  eyes  I liked 
him  well,  and  rejoiced  more  in  him  than  in  all  the 
wonders  of  the  Exhibition.” 

After  the  tour  Mrs  Browning  wrote  to  enquire  after 
his  health : 

Alla  Villa  Toscana, 

Bagni  di  Lucca. 

September  6th , 1857. 

My  dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 

We  see  in  the  Galignani  that  Mr  Tennyson  is  not 
well,  by  the  side  of  threats  of  fall  of  our  Indian  empire  and  other 
disasters ; and  it  disquiets  us  to  the  point  that  I must  write  to 
ask  you  whether  it  is  true  or  not  and  how  far  ? The  trade  of 
newspapers  is  to  blow  bubbles,  and  a little  breath  more  or  less 
determines  the  size  of  the  bubble. 

May  this  be  a mere  bubble ! write  one  word  to  say  so. 
Oh  may  you  be  able  to  smile  at  my  question  from  over 
the  sea ! 

But  remember  we  have  lost  our  friend,  your  brother  Frederick, 


422 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.” 


[l857 

from  whom  we  could  always  hear  about  you ! He  has 
devastated  our  Florence  for  us  by  going  to  live  at  Pisa  ; and 
now  he  is  farther  off  still,  at  Genoa,  while  we  are  mountain- 
locked  here  with  no  news  from  anybody. 

The  spring  and  summer  have  been  heavy  to  me  from  a 
family  grief  \ but  we  three  are  well,  thank  God,  living  quietly  in 
the  shade  till  the  sun  shall  have  done  his  worst  and  best  alas  ! in 
this  beautiful  Italy.  Little  Penini1 2  is  very  happy,  gossiping  with 
the  Contadini,  among  whom  he  passes  for  un  Vero  Fiorentino, 
though  he  talks  English  inside  the  house  as  fast  as  Italian  out  of 
it.  I hope  that  one  day  he  may  know  your  boys.  How  sorry  I 
was  to  leave  England  last  year  without  seeing  them  or  you,  or 
“King  Arthur”  ! 

My  husband  made  me  envious  by  the  advantage  he  had  over 
me  in  having  listened  to  a certain  exquisite  music  of  which  I 
could  only  dream. 

Just  before  we  left  Florence  to  come  hither,  we  saw  your 
brother  Frederick  who  went  there  for  a day  or  two.  We  thought 
we  never  saw  him  looking  so  well.  It  was  provoking  to  hear, 
very  provoking ; but  he  maintained  that  he  slept  at  Pisa  as  he 
never  could  at  Florence.  I was  very  cross,  and  inclined  to 
retort  that  at  Pisa  one  slept  by  day  as  well  as  by  night,  the  place 
was  so  dull. 

Think  of  our  loss  having  to  lose  him ! 

Dear  Mrs  Tennyson,  will  you  send  me  just  a few  words? 
Really  we  are  anxious.  Being  in  all  affection  to  both  of  you,  his 
and  yours, 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
& R.  B. 

A letter  came  about  this  time  from  Colonel  Phipps, 
saying  that  the  Queen  desired  that  a stanza  should  be 
added  to  God  save  the  Queen  for  a concert  to  be  given 
at  Buckingham  Palace  on  the  evening  of  the  Princess 
Royal’s  wedding-day.  These  two  stanzas  were  sent  in 
answer,  and  published  in  the  Times , January  26th,  1858  : 


1 Death  of  her  father. 

2 Familiar  name  of  their  son. 


1857] 


DEATH  OF  HAVELOCK. 


423 


God  bless  our  Prince  and  Bride ! 

God  keep  their  lands  allied, 

God  save  the  Queen! 

Clothe  them  with  righteousness, 

Crown  them  with  happiness, 

Them  with  all  blessings  bless, 

God  save  the  Queen. 

Fair  fall  this  hallow’d  hour, 

Farewell  our  England’s  flower, 

God  save  the  Queen ! 

Farewell,  fair  rose  of  May ! 

Let  both  the  peoples  say, 

God  bless  thy  marriage-day, 

God  bless  the  Queen. 

For  the  last  few  months  the  Indian  Mutiny  had 
excited  the  profoundest  interest  throughout  the  country, 
and  on  Christmas  Day  the  account  of  the  relief  of 
Lucknow  arrived.  Havelock’s  death,  which  had  occurred 
on  Nov.  25th,  was  not  then  known.  When  this  sad 
news  came,  my  father  wrote  the  following  lines: 

Havelock . Nov.  25 th,  1857.  ( Unpublished^) 

Bold  Havelock  march’d, 

Many  a mile  went  he, 

Every  mile  a battle, 

Every  battle  a victory. 

Bold  Havelock  march’d, 

Charged  with  his  gallant  few, 

Ten  men  fought  a thousand, 

Slew  them  and  overthrew. 

Bold  Havelock  march’d, 

Wrought  with  his  hand  and  his  head, 
March’d  and  thought  and  fought, 

March’d  and  fought  himself  dead. 


424 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l858 

Bold  Havelock  died, 

Tender  and  great  and  good, 

And  every  man  in  Britain 

Says  “ I am  of  Havelock’s  blood ! ” 


1858. 

In  January  “The  Parting  of  Arthur  and  Guinevere” 
was  finished  and  my  mother  records  her  first  impression 
— “ It  is  awe-inspiring.”  On  March  8th  the  entry  in 
her  journal  is:  “To-day  he  has  written  his  song  of 
‘Too  Late,’  and  has  said  it  to  me”;  and  on  March 
15th,  “‘Guinevere’  is  finally  completed.” 

My  father  then  occasionally  wrote  in  his  new  summer- 
house looking  towards  the  down  and  the  sea ; and  on 
the  windows  of  which  he  was  painting  marvellous 
dragons  and  sea-serpents.  “ One  day  ” (she  says), 
“ while  writing  his  ‘ Guinevere,’  A.  spoke  of  ‘ the  want 
of  reverence  now-a-days  for  great  men,  whose  brightness, 
like  that  of  the  luminous  bodies  in  the  Heaven,  makes 
the  dark  spaces  look  the  darker.’  ” 

At  this  time  he  sent  a letter  to  Dr  Mann  in  Natal: 

Our  winter  has  been  the  mildest  I have  ever  known. 
I read  of  ripe  pomegranates  hanging  on  a houseside  at 
Bath,  and  I myself  counted  scores  of  our  wild  summer 
roses  on  a hedge  near,  flourishing  in  December  and  lasting 
on  into  January,  tho’  now  gone,  for  the  temperature  has 
changed.  They  were  perfectly  fragrant,  and  I brought 
home  a bouquet  of  them  and  put  them  in  water.  You 
ask  after  the  farm  ? I cannot  say  that  * # is  going  on 
satisfactorily,  very  niggard  of  manure  in  the  fields  and 
ever  doing  his  best  to  ’reave  me  of  my  rent  by  working 
at  little  odd  jobs  as  a set  off,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  all  things  deducted,  I get  almost  nothing.  I am 
now  building  a little  summer-house  to  catch  the  southern 


1858] 


VISIT  FROM  SWINBURNE. 


425 


sun  in  Maiden’s  Croft,  if  you  remember  what  field  that 
is.  I shall  sit  there  and  bask  in  the  sunbeams  and  think 
of  you  far  south.  How  I should  love  to  rove  about  that 
parklike  scenery  of  which  you  give  such  a fascinating 
account ! 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 

P.S.  I may  tell  you  however  that  young  Swinburne 
called  here  the  other  day  with  a college  friend  of  his, 
and  we  asked  him  to  dinner,  and  I thought  him  a very 
modest  and  intelligent  young  fellow.  Moreover  I read 
him  what  you  vindicated1,  but  what  I particularly  admired 
in  him  was  that  he  did  not  press  upon  me  any  verses  of 
his  own.  Good-bye.  How  desolate  No.  7 B.  T.  must 
feel  itself ! 

Several  friends  urged  the  immediate  publication  of 
the  newly-written  Idylls,  among  them  Jowett,  who  says: 

I have  great  pleasure  in  sending  some  books  which  I hope 
you  will  accept,  the  best  books  in  the  world  (except  the  Bible), 
Homer  and  Plato. 

I take  the  opportunity  also  of  enclosing  Lempriere’s  Diction- 
ary. The  price  is  is.  6d.  The  bookseller  valued  it  so  little  that 
he  offered  to  give  me  the  book.  I have  added  two  or  three 
other  books  which  I thought  you  might  like  to  see,  the  trans- 
lation of  the  Vedas  as  a specimen  of  the  oldest  thing  in  the 
world,  Hegel’s  Philosophy  of  History , which  is  just  “ the  in- 
creasing purpose  that  through  the  ages  runs  ” buried  under  a 
heap  of  categories.  If  you  care  to  look  at  it  will  you  turn  to  the 
pages  I have  marked  at  the  beginning  ? It  is  a favourite  book 
of  mine.  I do  not  feel  certain  of  the  impression  it  will  make  on 
anyone  else. 

I also  send  you  the  latest  and  best  work  on  Mythology,  and 
Bunsen’s  new  Bibelbuch , which,  from  the  little  I have  read,  seems 
to  be  an  interesting  and  valuable  introduction  to  Scripture.  What 

1 Later  Swinburne  writes  : “ i Maud  ’ is  the  poem  of  the  deepest  charm  and 
fullest  delight,  pathos  and  melody  ever  written,  even  by  Mr  Tennyson.” 


426  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l858 

a cartload  of  heavy  literature ! Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  read 
or  to  send  it  back  to  me : I will  carry  it  away  some  day  myself. 

I fear  I have  no  news  to  tell  you,  and  “ the  art  of  letter- 
writing ” Dr  Johnson  says  “consists  solely  in  telling  news.” 

May  I say  a word  about  “ mosquitoes 1 ” ? Anyone  who  cares 
about  you  is  deeply  annoyed  that  you  are  deterred  by  them 
from  writing  or  publishing.  The  feeling  grows  and  brings  in 
after  years  the  still  more  painful  and  deeper  feeling  that  they 
have  prevented  you  from  putting  out  half  your  powers.  Noth- 
ing is  so  likely  to  lead  to  misrepresentation.  Persons  don’t 
understand  that  sensitiveness  is  often  combined  with  real  manli- 
ness as  well  as  great  intellectual  gifts,  and  they  regard  it  as  a 
sign  of  fear  and  weakness. 

A certain  man  on  a particular  day  has  his  stomach  out  of 
order  and  the  stomach  “ getteth  him  up  into  the  brain,”  and  he 
calls  another  man  “ morbid.”  He  is  morbid  himself  and  wants 
soothing  words,  and  the  whole  world  is  morbid  with  dissecting 
and  analysing  itself  and  wants  to  be  comforted  and  put  together 
again.  Might  not  this  be  the  poet’s  office,  to  utter  the  “better 
voice  ” while  Thackeray  is  uttering  the  worse  one  ? I don’t 
mean  to  blame  Thackeray,  for  I desire  to  take  the  world  as  it  is 
in  this  present  age,  crammed  with  self-consciousness,  and  no 
doubt  Thackeray’s  views  are  of  some  value  in  the  direction  of 
anti-humbug. 

But  there  is  another  note  needed  afterwards  to  show  the 
good  side  of  human  nature  and  to  condone  its  frailties  which 
Thackeray  will  never  strike.  That  note  would  be  most  thank- 
fully received  by  the  better  part  of  the  world. 

Give  my  love  to  Hallam  and  Lionel.  Tell  Hallam  I have 
put  his  letter  “ where  I can  always  see  it,”  and  that  I read 
every  day  about  “ Louise.” 

No  more  about  “ mosquitoes,”  I have  bored  you  enough. 
With  most  kind  regards  to  Mrs  Tennyson, 

Ever  yours  truly, 

B.  Jowett. 

At  this  time  Lord  Dufferin  wrote  from  Highgate, 
with  a copy  of  his  Letters  from  High  Latitudes . 


1 Spiteful  critics. 


1858]  DUFFERIN’S  “LETTERS  FROM  HIGH  LATITUDES.”  427 


My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I am  going  to  do  a very  bold  thing,  but  in  asking 
you  to  accept  the  accompanying  book  I hope  you  will  consider 
I am  only  obeying  an  impulse  I have  felt  for  many  many  years, 
but  to  which  until  now  I have  never  had  any  excuse  for  giving 
way. 

For  the  first  20  years  of  my  life  I not  only  did  not  care  for 
poetry,  but  to  the  despair  of  my  friends  absolutely  disliked  it,  at 
least  so  much  of  it  as  until  that  time  had  fallen  in  my  way.  In 
vain  my  mother  read  to  me  Dryden,  Pope,  Byron,  Young, 
Cowper  and  all  the  standard  classics  of  the  day,  each  seemed  to 
me  as  distasteful  as  I had  from  early  infancy  found  Virgil : and 
I shall  never  forget  her  dismay  when  at  a literary  dinner  I 
was  cross-examined  as  to  my  tastes,  and  blushingly  confessed 
before  an  Olympus  of  poets  that  I rather  disliked  poetry  than 
otherwise. 

Soon  afterwards  however  I fell  in  with  a volume  of  yours,  and 
suddenly  felt  such  a sensation  of  delight  as  I never  experienced 
before.  A new  world  seemed  open  to  me,  and  from  that  day,  by 
a constant  study  of  your  works,  I gradually  worked  my  way 
to  a thorough  appreciation  of  what  is  good  in  all  kinds  of 
authors. 

Naturally  enough  I could  not  help  feeling  very  grateful  to 
the  Orpheus  whose  music  had  made  the  gate  of  poet-land  fly 
open,  and  for  years  I longed  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Now 
that  I have  done  so  I cannot  help  wishing  to  make  you  a little 
thank-offering  as  a token  of  my  sense  of  what  I owe  to  you,  and 
however  insignificant,  I trust  you  will  accept  it  as  being  the  best 
and  only  thing  I have  to  give. 

Ever  yours  sincerely,  Dufferin. 

April  5 th . Professor  Tyndall,  Mr  Newman  and  Mr 
Dicey  called  : my  father  said  of  Tyndall:  “He  is  such  a 
good  fellow,  so  unscornful  and  genial,  so  full  of  imagina- 
tion and  of  enthusiasm  for  his  work  ! ” 

In  July  we  stayed  at  Little  Holland  House,  Ken- 
sington, with  the  Prinseps  : and  here  my  father  began 


428  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l858 

“ The  Fair  Maid  of  Astolat,”  and  read  aloud  “ The 
Grandmother.” 

Watts  was  at  work  on  what  his  friends  called  “the 
great  moonlight  portrait  ” of  the  Bard. 

It  was  then  that  my  father  met  Ruskin  again.  A 
voice  from  the  corner  of  the  room  exclaimed:  “Jones, 
you  are  gigantic.”  This  was  Ruskin  apostrophizing 
Burne  Jones  as  an  artist. 

From  Little  Holland  House  my  father  started  on  a 
trip  to  Norway,  and  he  wrote  in  his  Letter-Diary  : 

Started  from  Hull  on  July  23rd.  Saw  E.  on  board 
the  little  New  Holland  Steamer,  and  waved  my  hand- 
kerchief as  both  our  boats  were  moving  off : watched  the 
two  lights  of  Spurn  Point  till  they  became  one  star  and 
then  faded  away.  Next  day  very  fine  but  in  the  night 
towards  morning  storm  arose  and  our  topmast  was 
broken  off.  I stood  next  morning  a long  time  by  the 
cabin  door  and  watched  the  green  sea  looking  like  a 
mountainous  country,  far  off  waves  with  foam  at  the  top 
looking  like  snowy  mountains  bounding  the  scene  ; one 
great  wave,  green-shining,  past  with  all  its  crests  smoking 
high  up  beside  the  vessel1.  As  I stood  there  came  a 
sudden  hurricane  and  roared  drearily  in  the  funnel  for 
twenty  seconds  and  past  away. 

Christiansand.  Went  up  into  the  town  and  saw  the 
wooden  houses. 


1 They  couch’d  their  spears  and  prick’d  their  steeds,  and  thus, 
Their  plumes  driv’n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a wild  wave  in  the  wide  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 

Down  on  a bark,  and  overbears  the  bark, 

And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger. 


“ Lancelot  and  Elaine.” 


cUJaff^er&JS  inxtaXC^Pfi  c 


QyU^£,ci  ^Jesui^)  "OTV, 

j rom  tKc poTtraiJ^  trt  t/lc  -jiottcctt-icrn,  ^jAdyATAauy  OJomtnscA 

^painleJ  Ay  (y.  Aljatb,  AJ^AL/tri  i Sjy . 


1858]  TOUR  IN  NORWAY.  429 

August  1st . Christiania.  Magnificent  seas  on  the 
way  here.  At  Christiansand  called  on  a Mr  Murch,  and 
the  Frau  Murch  gave  me  a splendid  bouquet  of  flowers  : 
arrived  here  at  6 this  afternoon.  I write  this  at  the 
house  of  Mr  Crowe,  consul,  looking  over  the  Sound  — 
very  pretty  in  the  evening  light.  Am  not  quite  certain 
whether  I shall  join  Barrett  and  the  other. 

August  2nd.  Christiania.  I let  Barrett  and  Tweedie 
go  by  themselves  to  Bergen.  I am  starting  to-day  to 
see  the  Riukan  Foss  with  Mr  Woodfall,  a very  quiet 
sensible  man,  and  we  shall  take  our  time.  I have  had 
great  kindness  from  the  Crowes.  Yesterday  a Norwegian 
introduced  himself  at  the  hotel,  and  began  to  spout  my 
own  verses  to  me  ; and  I likewise  rather  to  my  annoy- 
ance found  myself  set  down  in  the  Christiania  papers  as 
“ Den  beromte  encrelske  Dieter.” 

I have  seen  the  Riukan  Foss.  Magnificent  power 
of  water ; weird  blue  light  behind  the  fall. 

On  his  return  the  Frederick  Maurices  visited  us  at 
Farringford.  Mr  Maurice  read  family  prayers  in  the 
morning,  and  my  mother  notes  : “A.  rejoiced  as  much 
as  I did  in  his  reading  — ‘ the  most  earnest  and  holiest 
reading,’  A.  said,  ‘ he  had  ever  heard.’  ” 

In  the  evenings  my  father  recited  his  new  poems 
“The  Grandmother”  and  “Sea  Dreams1,’’  saying  that 
the  rascal  in  “ Sea  Dreams”  was  drawn  from  a man  who 
had  grossly  cheated  him  in  early  life.  Mr  Maurice  was 
charmed  with  the  place : 

Groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 

To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a billow  on  chalk  and  sand. 


1 First  published  in  Macmillan' s Magazine , Jan.  i860. 


430  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l858 

If  his  doctrine  had  been  somewhat  more  within 
ordinary  comprehension,  my  father  was  of  opinion  that 
he  would  have  taken  his  place  as  foremost  thinker 
among  the  Churchmen  of  our  time.  Consequently  the 
following  dedication  of  Maurice’s  Theological  Essays 
gave  him  great  pleasure. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I have  maintained  in  these  Essays  that  a Theology 
which  does  not  correspond  to  the  deepest  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  human  beings  cannot  be  a true  Theology.  Your  writings 
have  taught  me  to  enter  into  many  of  these  thoughts  and 
feelings.  Will  you  forgive  me  the  presumption  of  offering  you 
a book  which  at  least  acknowledges  them  and  does  them 
homage  ? 

As  the  hopes  which  I have  expressed  in  this  volume  are 
more  likely  to  be  fulfilled  to  our  children  than  to  ourselves,  I 
might  perhaps  ask  you  to  accept  it  as  a present  to  one  of  your 
name,  in  whom  you  have  given  me  a very  sacred  interest1. 
Many  years,  I trust,  will  elapse,  before  he  knows  that  there  are 
any  controversies  in  the  world  into  which  he  has  entered. 
Would  to  God  that  in  a few  more  he  may  find  that  they  have 
ceased  ! At  all  events,  if  he  should  look  into  these  Essays , they 
may  tell  him  what  meaning  some  of  the  former  generation 
attached  to  words,  which  will  be  familiar  and  dear  to  his 
generation,  and  to  those  that  follow  his,  how  there  were  some 
who  longed  that  the  bells  of  our  churches  might  indeed 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

Yours  very  truly  and  gratefully, 

F.  D.  Maurice. 

Two  ideas  which  Maurice  expressed  my  father  would 
quote  with  approbation,  that  the  “ real  Hell  was  the 


1 See  p.  358. 


A COMET. 


431 


1858] 

absence  of  God  from  the  human  soul,  and  that  all 
religions  seemed  to  him  to  be  imperfect  manifestations 
of  the  true  Christianity.” 

I remember  too  his  reading  with  admiration  this 
passage  from  Maurice’s  Friendship  of  Books.  “ If  I do 
not  give  you  extracts  from  any  of  Milton’s  specially 
controversial  writings,  it  is  not  that  I wish  to  pass  them 
over  because  the  conclusions  in  them  are  often  directly 
opposed  to  mine,  for  I think  that  I have  learnt  most 
from  those  that  are  so.” 

Oct.  4th.  “ To-day,”  my  mother  says,  “ A.  took  a 
volume  of  the  Morte  d' Arthur  and  read  a noble  passage 
about  the  battle  with  the  Romans.  He  went  to  meet  Mr 
and  Mrs  Roebuck  at  dinner  at  Swainston  : and  the  comet 
was  grand,  with  Arcturus  shining  brightly  over  the  nu- 
cleus. At  dinner  he  said  he  must  leave  the  table  to  look 
at  it  and  they  all  followed.  They  saw  Arcturus  seem- 
ingly dance  as  if  mad1  when  it  passed  out  of  the  comet’s 
tail.  He  said  of  the  comet’s  tail,  ‘ It  is  like  a besom  of 
destruction  sweeping  the  sky.’  ” When  he  returned  next 
night  he  “ observed  the  comet  from  his  platform 2,  and, 
when  he  came  down  to  tea,  read  some  Paradise  Lost.” 

Oct.  \*]th.  He  read  aloud  “The  Rape  of  the 
Lock,”  and  noted  the  marvellous  skill  of  many  of 
the  couplets. 

November . My  father  writes:  “I  have  just  seen 

Ruskin:  he  says  that  the  Signor’s  (G.  F.  Watts’)  portrait 
of  me  is  the  grandest  thing  he  has  seen  in  that  line, 
but  so  he  said  of  (Woolner’s)  bust3.” 

During  these  last  months  of  the  year  he  was  full  of 
the  Queen’s  wise  proclamation  to  India  after  the  trans- 
ference of  the  government  from  the  Company  to  the 

1 Alluded  to  in  “Harold.” 

2 The  platform  on  the  top  of  the  house  was  a favourite  place  with  him  at 
night,  and  there  he  continually  observed  the  stars. 

3 Now  in  the  Library  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 


432 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l858 

Crown.  The  Indian  Mutiny  had  stirred  him  to  the 
depths. 


Letters  from  the  Rev . B.  Jowett. 


Dec . 1858. 

Dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 

We  shall  long  remember  your  kind  hospitality,  which 
made  the  Easter  Vacation  a very  happy  time  to  us. 

You  asked  me  whether  I could  suggest  any  subjects  for 
poetry.  I have  been  so  presumptuous  as  to  think  of  some.  I 
don’t  believe  that  poetical  feelings  and  imagery  on  subjects  can 
ever  be  exhausted.  That  is  only  a fancy  which  comes  over  us 
when  our  minds  are  dry  or  in  moments  of  depression.  This 
generation  is  certainly  more  poetical  and  imaginative  than  the 
last,  and  perhaps  in  spite  of  the  critics  the  next  may  be  more 
poetical  than  our  own. 

And  as  to  the  critics  their  power  is  not  really  great.  Waggon- 
loads of  them  are  lighting  fires  every  week  or  on  their  way  to  the 
grocers. 

I often  fancy  that  the  critical  form  of  modern  literature  is 
like  the  rhetorical  one  which  overlaid  ancient  literature  and  will 
be  regarded  as  that  is,  at  its  true  worth  in  after  times.  One  drop 
of  natural  feeling  in  poetry  or  the  true  statement  of  a single  new 
fact  is  already  felt  to  be  of  more  value  than  all  the  critics  put 
together. 

I suggested  “old  age”  to  Mr  Tennyson,  a sort  of  “In 
Memoriam”  over  a lost  child,  wandering  in  soothing  strains  over 
all  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  aged.  It  always  seems  to 
me  that  “ old  age  ” has  been  badly  treated  by  poets  notwith- 
standing Burns’  beautiful  ballad.  Its  beauty,  its  sadness,  its 
peace,  its  faded  experience  of  life  are  good  elements  of  poetry. 
An  old  lady  once  said  to  me  quite  simply,  “ The  spirits  of  my 
children  always  seem  to  hover  about  me 1.”  Might  not  some- 
thing of  the  kind  be  expressed  in  verse  ? If  it  could,  like  “ The 
May  Queen,”  it  would  touch  the  chords  of  many  hearts. 

The  2 Sam.  xix.  34,  35  is  to  me  a very  affecting  passage. 


1 My  father  had  heard  this  saying  before,  and  it  was  the  germ  of  u The 

Grandmother.” 


SUBJECTS  FOR  POEMS. 


433 


1858] 


I wish  Mr  Tennyson  could  be  persuaded  to  put  the  “ Dogma 
of  Immortality  ” to  verse,  not  the  fanciful  hope  of  Immortality 
from  “recollections  of  childhood,”  nor  the  conceptions  of  a 
future  life  derived  from  the  imagery  of  Scripture  such  as  are 
common  in  devotional  poetry,  but  an  heroic  measure  suited  to 
manly  minds  embodying  the  deep  ethical  feeling  which  convinces 
us  that  the  end  of  the  Maker  though  dark  is  not  here.  I believe 
such  a poem  might  be  a possession  for  the  world  and  better 
(what  a bathos !)  than  ten  thousand  sermons. 

Subjects  like  blackberries  seem  to  me  capable  of  being 
gathered  off  every  hedge.  (That  shows  the  folly  of  suggesting 
what  anybody  can  find  for  themselves  anywhere.)  I do  not  see 
why  the  Greek  Mythology  might  not  be  the  subject  of  a poem ; 
not  Wordsworth’s  “ Lively  Grecian,”  but  such  as  it  is  in  the 
philosophical  idea  of  it  as  the  twilight  of  the  human  mind, 
which  lingers  still  among  forms  of  sense  and  is  unable  to  pierce 
them. 

Have  not  many  sciences  such  as  Astronomy  or  Geology  a 
side  of  feeling  which  is  poetry  ? No  sight  touches  ordinary 
persons  so  much  as  a starlight  night. 

I think  you  once  said  to  me  that  “ Whole  philosophies  might 
be  contained  in  a line  of  verse.”  Is  it  not  true  also  that  whole 
periods  of  history,  seen  by  the  light  of  modern  ideas,  admit  of 
being  described  in  short  passages  of  poetry  ? Representative 
men  such  as  Charlemagne  or  Hildebrand  seem  to  me  safer 
than  the  shadowy  personages  of  the  legends  of  romance.  The 
Coronation  of  Charlemagne,  and  the  scene  of  Hildebrand  and 
the  Emperor  might  help  to  form  the  situation.  New  friends  or 
foes  with  old  faces  might  occasionally  peep  out. 

A representative  from  one  of  the  Monastic  orders  similar  in 
idea  to  St  Simeon  Stylites  and  to  be  called  St  Francis  of 
Assisi,  more  Christian  and  less  barbarous,  would  perhaps  be 
possible. 

Painters  like  to  teach  new  lessons  in  nature.  The  successive 
phases  of  the  human  mind  in  different  ages  are  subjects  for 
poetry  even  more  than  for  philosophy.  Might  not  the  poet 
teach  many  lessons  of  that  sort,  not  in  the  aesthetical,  artistic 
manner  of  Goethe  but  with  simpler  English  poetic  feeling  ? 

Now  I have  said  enough  foolish  things  and  will  conclude. 
You  will  do  me  a great  favour  if  you  will  let  me  know  of  any 
books  that  I can  send  Mr  Tennyson  which  you  think  may  be 

T.  I.  2S 


434  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l858 

useful  or  suggestive.  Almost  anything  can  be  got  here,  or  if 
you  will  tell  me  the  subjects,  I can  find  the  books. 

I hold  most  strongly  that  it  is  the  duty  of  everyone  who  has 
the  good  fortune  to  know  a man  of  genius,  to  do  any  trifling 
service  they  can  to  lighten  his  work. 

I will  write  to  Mr  Tennyson  in  a few  days.  Remember  me 
to  him  and 

Believe  me  most  truly  yours, 

B.  Jowett. 


Dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 


Ball.  Coll. 

Dec.  12  thy  1858. 


I cannot  but  feel  greatly  ashamed  of  my  ingratitude 
and  disrespect  in  not  having  answered  your  last  kind  letter 
which  gave  me  great  pleasure  at  the  time  I received  it.  I 
believe  that  ingratitude  is  not  the  real  cause  (for  that  I 
could  not  possibly  feel)  but  inveterate  indolence  about  certain 
things,  among  which  I fear  come  some  of  the  duties  of 
friendship. 

You  return  me  good  for  evil  by  sending  me  the  two  sweet 
letters  of  the  children ; which  I recognize  as  most  genuine 
productions.  Give  my  love  to  the  two  “ little  birds. ” Lionel’s 
epistle  especially  is  just  a picture  of  a child’s  mind. 

I hope  Mr  Tennyson  is  well  and  has  good  success  in  his 
great  work 1.  Authors  great  and  small  have  some  trials  in 
common  and  some  joys  when  a “book  is  born  into  the  world.” 

I think  I have  read  somewhere  a description  of  Burns’  wife 
and  child  coming  to  meet  him  when  he  was  in  a sort  of  ecstasy, 
“with  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,”  writing  “Tam  o’ 
Shanter”  at  the  side  of  a stream.  That  must  be  a great 
alleviation.  I am  sure  it  is  only  success  (in  the  higher  sense) 
and  not  resignation  or  philosophy  that  can  make  an  author 
happy. 

I do  not  doubt  that  the  world  will  be  charmed  with  the 
“ Arthur  Idylls.”  No  malice  will  be  able  to  prevent  people 
from  seeing  that  they  are  most  beautiful  poems.  I have  more 


1 The  “ Idylls  ot  the  King.” 


LETTERS  FROM  JOWETT. 


435 


1858] 

hesitation  (shall  I go  on  ?)  about  the  other  poem  respecting  the 
clerk  and  wife1,  and  could  wish  that  the  fortunes  of  it  were 
tried  alone  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  good-will  towards 
“ Arthur.” 

The  scene  and  the  satirical  passage  appear  to  me  the  doubtful 
points.  It  seems  to  me  quite  as  fine  as  the  “ Idylls,”  but  I speak 
with  reference  to  its  effect  on  the  public. 

You  told  me  that  I might  suggest  to  you  any  subjects  that  I 
dreamed  of.  Did  I mention  “Jupiter  Olympius,”  the  statue  of 
Phidias  ? The  subject  could  partly  be  the  Olympic  games  and 
the  interest  the  Classical  Greek  feeling  of  the  poem.  But  now  I 
want  to  suggest  something  that  would  “ express  the  thoughts  of 
many  hearts,”  which  I must  always  think  to  be  the  highest 
excellence  of  poetry,  and  afford  a solace  where  it  is  much 
needed.  The  subject  I mean  is  “ In  Memoriam  ” for  the  dead 
in  India.  It  might  be  done  so  as  to  include  some  scenes  of 
Cawnpore  and  Lucknow  ; or  quite  simply  and  slightly,  “ Relatives 
in  India,”  the  schemings  and  hopings  and  imaginings  about 
them,  and  the  fatal  missive  suddenly  announcing  their  death. 
They  leave  us  in  the  fairness  and  innocence  of  youth,  with 
nothing  but  the  vision  of  their  childhood  and  boyhood  to  look 
back  upon,  and  return  no  more. 

Perhaps  you  know  what  sets  my  thoughts  upon  this,  the 
death  of  my  dear  brother,  the  second  who  has  died  in  India.  It 
matters  nothing  to  the  world,  for  they  had  never  the  opportunity 
of  distinguishing  themselves,  but  it  matters  a great  deal  to  me. 
They  were  dear  good  disinterested  fellows,  most  unselfish  in 
their  ways,  and  as  grateful  to  me  for  what  I did  for  them  when 
they  were  boys,  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday.  I like  to  think 
of  them  in  the  days  of  their  youth  busying  themselves  with 
engineering  which  was  their  great  amusement.  They  were 
wonderfully  attached  to  each  other.  The  younger  one  especially, 
who  died  first  about  five  years  ago,  was  one  of  the  sweetest 
dispositions  I ever  knew. 

If  I did  not  venture  to  look  upon  you  and  Mr  Tennyson  as 
something  like  friends,  I should  not  venture  to  trouble  you 
with  this  sorrow  about  persons  whom  you  have  never  seen 
or  heard  of. 

I hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  coming  to  see  you  about  the 


1 “ Sea  Dreams.” 


436  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l859 

6th  or  7th  of  January  for  a few  days.  But  I could  come  at  any 
other  time  if  more  convenient. 

Ever  truly  yours,  B.  Jowett. 

i&59- 

The  sudden  death  of  Henry  Hallam  was  a great 
grief  to  my  father,  for  the  historian  had  been  a good 
friend  through  thirty  years.  On  hearing  of  Mr  Hallam’s 
last  days  he  read  some  “ In  Memoriam  ” aloud  and 
dwelt  on  those  passages  which  most  moved  him.  Gene- 
rally when  he  was  asked  to  read  the  poem  he  would 
refuse,  saying:  “ It  breaks  me  down,  I cannot.”  In  the 
spring  of  the  year  the  four  “ Idylls  of  the  King,” 
“ Enid,”  “ Vivien,”  “ Elaine,”  “ Guinevere,”  were  pre- 
pared for  publication. 

“ Boadicea  ” was  also  written,  the  metre  being  “ an 
echo  of  the  metre  in  the  ‘Atys’  of  Catullus1”:  he  wished 
that  it  were  musically  annotated  so  that  it  might  be  read 
with  proper  quantity  and  force. 

“Riflemen,  Form !”  appeared  in  May  in  the  Times 
after  the  outbreak  of  war  between  France,  Piedmont, 
and  Austria ; when  more  than  one  power  seemed  to  be 
prepared  to  take  the  offensive  against  England ; and  it 
rang  like  a trumpet-call  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  Empire.  It  so  happened  that  three  days  later  an 
order  from  the  War  Office  came  out,  approving  of  the 
formation  of  Volunteer  rifle  corps.  To  Colonel  Richards, 
who  was  one  of  the  prominent  promoters  of  the  move- 
ment, my  father  wrote:  “I  must  heartily  congratulate 
you  on  your  having  been  able  to  do  so  much  for  your 
country ; and  I hope  that  you  will  not  cease  from  your 
labours  until  it  is  the  law  of  the  land  that  every  male 
child  in  it  shall  be  trained  to  the  use  of  arms.”  On  the 
same  day  that  “ Riflemen,  Form ! ” was  forwarded  for 


1 A.  T.  MS. 


437 


1859]  “ JACK  TAR.” 

publication,  the  proofs  of  the  last  “ Idyll  ” (“  Elaine  ”) 
were  finally  corrected  for  press1. 

He  made  too  a song  for  sailors : 

Jack  Tar . ( Unpublished .) 

They  say  some  foreign  powers  have  laid  their  heads 
together 

To  break  the  pride  of  Britain,  and  bring  her  on 
her  knees, 

There’s  a treaty,  so  they  tell  us,  of  some  dishonest 
fellows 

To  break  the  noble  pride  of  the  Mistress  of  the 
Seas. 

Up,  Jack  Tars,  and  save  us! 

The  whole  world  shall  not  brave  us ! 

Up  and  save  the  pride  of  the  Mistress  of  the 
Seas ! 

We  quarrel  here  at  home,  and  they  plot  against  us 
yonder, 

They  will  not  let  an  honest  Briton  sit  at  home 
at  ease : 

Up,  Jack  Tars,  my  hearties!  and  the  d^ — 1 take  the 
parties ! 

Up  and  save  the  pride  of  the  Mistress  of  the  Seas ! 

Up,  Jack  Tars,  and  save  us! 

The  whole  world  shall  not  brave  us ! 

Up  and  save  the  pride  of  the  Mistress  of  the 
Seas ! 

1 Mr  Coventry  Patmore  wrote  to  my  father  in  May  1859 : “It  will  please 
you  to  hear  that  ‘Riflemen,  Form!’  is  being  responded  to.  I hear  that 
four  hundred  clerks  of  the  War  Office  alone  have  at  once  answered  to  the 
Government  invitation,  and  on  my  proposing  that  our  department  should  send 
a contingent,  almost  every  man  in  the  place  put  his  name  down,  although  a 
large  cost  will  be  incurred,  and  we  are  nearly  all  poor.  If  things  go  through 
the  country  at  that  rate,  there  never  will  be  an  invasion.” 


43$  HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l859 

The  lasses  and  the  little  ones,  Jack  Tars,  they  look  to 
you ! 

The  despots  over  yonder,  let  ’em  do  whate’er  they 
please ! 

God  bless  the  little  isle  where  a man  may  still  be 
true ! 

God  bless  the  noble  isle  that  is  Mistress  of  the 
Seas ! 

Up,  Jack  Tars,  and  save  us! 

The  whole  world  shall  not  brave  us ! 

If  you  will  save  the  pride  of  the  Mistress  of 
the  Seas. 

In  Once  a Week , July  16th,  was  published  “The 
Grandmother’s  Apology  ” with  a beautiful  illustration  by 
Millais. 

With  a view  to  some  new  “ Idylls  of  the  King  ” my 
father  was  studying  “ Pelleas  and  Ettarre  ” and  “ La 
belle  Isoude  ” ; and,  after  working  at  those  already  in 
print,  went  for  a holiday  in  August  with  Mr  Palgrave  to 
Portugal. 

My  fathers  letter-diary . Journey  to  Portugal 
with  F.  T.  Palgrave  and  F.  C.  Grove 1. 

August  16th.  Radley’s  Hotel,  Southampton.  Have 
been  over  the  Vectis,  the  name  of  the  vessel,  not  Tagus, 
Tagus  being  repaired,  or  running  alternately  with  the 
Vectis.  She  is  very  prettily  got  up  and  painted,  and 
apparently  scrupulously  clean.  Brookfield 2 keeps  up  my 
spirits  by  wonderful  tales,  puns,  etc.  I find  that  neither 
Palgrave  nor  Grove  wants  to  move  except  as  I will  and 
they  are  quite  content  to  remain  at  Cintra. 

A ugust  1 7 th.  Have  passed  a night  somewhat  broken 
by  railway  whistles. 

1 Eldest  son  of  Judge  Sir  W.  Grove. 

2 Brookfield  had  come  to  see  his  friends  off  from  Southampton, 


1859] 


TOUR  IN  PORTUGAL. 


439 


[This  — writes  Palgrave  — was  Tennyson’s  second  voyage  (so  far  as 
I know)  of  more  than  Channel  length.  It  was  strange,  that  sensation 
of  the  little  moving  island,  the  vessel  which  was  bridging  for  us  the 
ocean  between  England  and  Iberia : “ like  a world  hung  in  space,”  as 
Tennyson  called  it.  Tennyson’s  flow  and  fertility  in  anecdote,  such  as 
I have  elsewhere  tried  to  sketch  it,  was  wonderful. 

No  need  to  dwell  on  the  few  incidents  which  broke  the  pleasant 
monotony  of  the  voyage  : porpoises  plunging  and  re-appearing  round 
the  ship,  like  black  wheels  ploughing  the  gray-blue  waters : small 
whales  spouting  their  fountains  on  the  near  horizon : the  meridian 
observations ; the  rocks  of  Ushant : the  beacon  light  on  Finisterre  : I 
name  them  only  because  of  the  vivid  interest  with  which  they  were 
studied  by  Tennyson.  But  we  desired  nothing  better  than  the  far 
niente  of  those  cloudless  days.  Presently,  however,  that  craving  for 
“ the  palms  and  temples  of  the  South  ” which  he  was  never  to  gratify, 
fell  upon  Tennyson ; and  he  began  to  long  in  vain  to  push  onward  to 
Tenerifle.] 

August  2 ist.  Braganza  Hotel,  Lisbon.  Just  arrived 
at  Lisbon  and  settled  at  the  Braganza  Hotel  after  a very 
prosperous  voyage  tho’  with  a good  deal  of  rolling.  We 
merely  touched  at  Vigo  which  looked  fruitful,  rolled  up 
in  a hot  mist,  and  saw  Oporto  from  the  sea,  looking  very 
white  in  a fat  port-wine  country.  It  is  here  just  as  hot 
as  one  would  wish  it  to  be  but  not  at  all  too  hot.  There 
was  a vast  deal  of  mist  and  fog  all  along  the  coast  as  we 
came.  Lisbon  I have  not  yet  seen  except  from  the 
sea,  and  it  does  not  equal  expectation  as  far  as  seen1. 
Palgrave  and  Grove  have  been  helpful  and  pleasant 
companions,  and  so  far  all  has  gone  well.  We  shall  go 
to  Cintra  either  to-morrow  or  next  day.  It  is  said  to  be 
Lisbon’s  Richmond  and  rather  cockney  tho’  high  and 
cool.  The  man  who  is  landlord  here  is  English  and  an 
Englishman  keeps  the  hotel  at  Cintra.  I hope  with 
good  hope  that  I shall  not  be  pestered  with  the  plagues 
of  Egypt.  I cannot  say  whether  we  shall  stick  at  Cintra 
or  go  further  on.  Brookfield  gave  a good  account  of  the 
cleanliness  of  Seville. 

1 Except  the  convent  chapel  at  Belem. 


440  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l859 

August  2 3rd.  Cintra.  We  drove  over  Lisbon 
yesterday  in  a blazing  heat  and  saw  the  Church  of 
St  Vincent,  and  the  Botanical  Gardens  where  palms  and 
prickly  pears  and  huge  cactuses  were  growing,  and 
enormous  oleanders  covered  all  over  with  the  richest  red 
blossom,  and  I thought  of  our  poor  one  at  Farringford 
that  won’t  blossom.  There  were  two  strange  barbaric 
statues  at  the  gate  of  the  garden,  which  were  dug  up  on 
the  top  of  a hill  in  Portugal : some  call  them  Phoenician 
but  no  one  knows  much  about  them.  I tried  to  see  the 
grave  of  Fielding  the  novelist,  who  is  buried  in  the 
Protestant  cemetery,  but  could  find  no  one  to  let  me  in ; 
he  lies  among  the  cypresses.  In  the  evening  we  came 
on  here : the  drive  was  a cold  one,  and  the  country  dry, 
tawny,  and  wholly  uninteresting.  Cintra  disappointed 
me  at  first  sight,  and  perhaps  will  continue  to  disappoint, 
tho’  to  southern  eyes  from  its  ever  green  groves,  in 
contrast  to  the  parched  barren  look  of  the  landscape,  it 
must  look  very  lovely.  I climbed  with  Grove  to  the 
Pena,  a Moorish-looking  castle  on  the  top  of  the  hill, 
which  is  being  repaired,  and  which  has  gateways  fronted 
with  tiles  in  pattern ; these  gates  look  like  those  in  the 
illustrated  Arabian  Nights  of  Lane1. 

August  26 th.  It  is,  I think,  now  decided  that  we  are 
to  go  on  to  Cadiz  and  Seville  on  the  2nd,  and  then  to 
Gibraltar  and  possibly  to  Tangiers,  possibly  to  Malaga 
and  Granada.  The  King’s  Chamberlain  has  found  me 
out  by  my  name : his  name  is  the  Marquis  of  Figueros 
or  some  such  sound  ; and  yesterday  even  the  Duke  of 
Saldanha  came  into  the  salle  a manger , described  himself 
as  “ having  fought  under  the  great  Duke,  and  having 
been  in  two  and  forty  combats  and  successful  in  all,  as 
having  married  two  English  wives,  both  perfect  women,” 
etc.,  and  ended  with  seizing  my  hand  and  crying  out 


1 Then  they  strolled  to  the  Bay  of  Apples. 


LISBON. 


441 


1859] 

“ Who  does  not  know  England’s  Poet  Laureate  ? I am 
the  Duke  of  Saldanha.”  I continue  pretty  well  except 
for  toothache  ; I like  the  place  much  better  as  I know  it 
better.  A visit  to  Santarem  (the  city  of  convents)  was 
greatly  enjoyed. 

[The  town  itself  proved  a labyrinth  of  narrow  and  filthy  streets, 
though  here  also  were  many  large  ecclesiastical  buildings,  ending  in  a 
vast  ruined  castle,  which  from  an  immense  height  commanded  the  river 
valley.  Here  we  two  (for  our  pleasant  comrade  had  now  left  us)  sat 
long,  and  beneath  us  saw  miles  on  miles  of  level  land,  forest  and 
vineyard,  dotted  with  unknown  villages,  and  lighted  up  by  the  long 
curves  of  the  Tagus.  This  undoubtedly  is  one  of  the  great  panoramic 
landscapes  of  Europe,  and  I suppose  the  least  visited.  Nearer  the  city, 
thorny  lines  of  glaucous  aloe,  here  and  there  throwing  out  lofty  flower- 
stems,  ran  up  the  hill-sides  planted  thick  with  olive-trees,  beneath 
which  the  sun  now  cast  down  long  separate  shadows,  and  illuminated 
the  Tagus  flowing  right  below  our  eyes  between  wide  tawny  sandbanks 
to  the  deepest  fold  of  its  green  and  sinuous  channel  h] 

Sept.  2nd.  Lisbon.  The  heat  and  the  flies  and  the 
fleas  and  one  thing  or  another  have  decided  us  to  return 
by  the  boat  to  Southampton  which  starts  from  this  place 
on  the  7th.  We  propose  on  arriving  at  Southampton  to 
pass  on  to  Lyndhurst  to  spend  two  or  three  days  in  the 
Forest. 

[Our  visit,  we  gradually  found,  was  not  at  the  most  favourable 
season  : the  fields  browned  and  burnt  by  heat,  the  mosquitoes  afflicting. 
Against  the  latter,  Tennyson  had  provided  himself  with  an  elaborate 
tent  (first  contrived,  I believe,  by  Sir  C.  Fellowes  for  use  in  Asia 
Minor,  during  the  night-time)  : a sheet  formed  into  a large  bag,  but 
ending  in  a muslin  canopy,  which  was  distended  by  a cane  circle,  and 
hung  upwards,  to  accommodate  head  and  shoulders,  from  a nail  which 
I took  the  freedom  to  run  into  his  bedroom  wall.  Into  this  shelter  the 
occupant  crept  by  a narrow  sheet-funnel,  which  he  closed  by  twisting ; 
and  once  in,  he  was  unable  to  light  a match  outside  for  fear  lest  the 
action  should  set  the  muslin  on  fire.  Hence  one  night  Tennyson,  able 
to  command  the  bell,  summoned  the  waiter.  I brought  him  in  through 
my  (contiguous)  room  with  a light ; and  the  man’s  terror  at  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  great  ghost,  looking  spectral  within  its  white  canopy,  was 


1 Palgrave  MS. 


442 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l859 

delightful.  He  almost  ran  off.  But  I think  that  after  this  experience 
Tennyson  abandoned  the  tent  and  took  his  chances  : only  pretending 
to  wish  that  he  had  a little  baby  in  bed  with  him,  as  a whiter  and  more 
tempting  morsel  to  the  insect  world. 

More  serious  than  the  mosquito  was  the  sun.  This  so  wrought 
upon  and  disturbed  Tennyson,  in  a manner  with  which  many  English 
travellers  to  Italy  during  the  heat  will  be  unpleasantly  familiar,  that  he 
now  began  gravely  to  talk  about  leaving  his  bones  by  the  side  of  the 
great  novelist  Fielding,  who  died  and  was  buried  at  Lisbon  in  1754  h] 

Sept,  i^t/i.  Southampton.  Arrived,  and  going  on 
to-morrow  to  Lyndhurst,  where  I shall  stop  two  or  three 
days,  then  I am  going  on  to  Cambridge  with  Palgrave 
from  a longing  desire  that  I have  to  be  there  once 
more. 

Crown  Hotel,  Lyndhurst.  Palgrave  has  been  as 
kind  to  me  as  a brother,  and  far  more  useful  than  a valet 
or  courier,  doing  everything.  His  father  is  away  at  Spa, 
he  (Palgrave)  is  horrified  at  being  alone.  I gave  him 
hopes  of  his  being  with  me  till  his  father  returned  and  I 
do  not  therefore  like  to  leave  him. 

Sept.  20 th.  Cambridge.  I have  been  spending  the 
evening  with  my  old  tobacconist  in  whose  house  I used 
to  lodge,  and  to-morrow  I am  to  dine  with  Macmillan. 
I admire  Jesus  Chapel  which  is  more  like  a Church  than 
a Chapel. 

[Palgrave  writes  : Cambridge  was  in  Long  Vacation,  but  Munro,  the 
great  Latin  scholar,  and  W.  G.  Clark,  then  charming  and  gay,  and 
unforeseeing  the  shadow  destined  to  eclipse  his  later  days,  feasted  us ; 
welcoming  Tennyson  once  again  back  to  Trinity.  He  showed  me, 
with  pathos  in  his  voice  of  memories  distant  and  dear,  Arthur  Hallam’s 
rooms  ; the  “ Backs,”  to  which  Oxford  (he  would  have  it)  “ has  no  rival,” 
and  the  curious  Jacobean  brickwork  of  Queens’  College,  where  in  his 
time  the  “ Combination  room  ” had  yet  a sanded  floor,  and  the  table 
was  set  handsomely  forth  with  long  “church-wardens.”] 

In  the  autumn  my  father  returned  to  Farringford 
and  entertained  the  American  statesman,  Charles  Sumner. 


1 Palgrave  MS. 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


443 


1859] 

In  November  he  was  reading  with  intense  interest  an 
early  copy  of  Darwin’s  Origin  of  Species , sent  him  by 
his  own  desire;  and  was  finishing  his  “Tithonus,”  which 
he  forwarded  to  Thackeray  for  the  Cornhill  Magazine l. 
A letter  came  from  Charles  Kingsley  : 

Eversley,  1859. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

I wrote  for  Fraser , September  1850,  a review  of  you, 
and  especially  of  “ In  Memoriam.”  I am  now  going  to  publish 
a set  of  Miscellanies  and  thought  of  including  that  review. 
But  when  I read  it  through  I thought  I ought  to  ask  your  leave. 
I felt  it  almost  too  personal  toward  you  in  its  expression  of 
admiration  and  gratitude  for  your  influence,  and  in  its  expression 
about  “ In  Memoriam.”  It  was  necessary  to  be  so  then ; for, 
while  penny-a-liners  were  talking  vulgar  and  unkind  personali- 
ties, I felt  bound  to  tell  ail  whom  I could  make  listen,  what  a 
gentleman  and  a Christian  ought  to  think  of  you  and  your  work; 
but  I am  not  sure  that  you  would  like  all  I said  there  republished 
now  that  the  bubble  is  over.  Will  you  say  “ Yes  ” or  “ No  ” ? and 
if  you  will  say  “Yes,”  you  will  deeply  gratify  me;  for  I wish 
to  leave  behind  me  some  record  of  what  I owe  you.  Pray 
remember  me  to  Mrs  Tennyson  and  to  your  children,  whom  I 
do  not  know  alas ! I seem  destined  never  to  see  you.  Here 
I live,  as  busy  as  a bee  in  my  parish,  and  never  leave  home  but 
for  urgent  business. 

Believe  me  your  devoted  C.  Kingsley. 

Soon  after  this  the  Kingsleys  paid  us  a visit. 
“ Charles  Kingsley,”  so  my  father  told  me,  “ talked  as 
usual  on  all  sorts  of  topics  and  walked  hard  up  and  down 
the  study  for  hours  smoking  furiously,  and  affirming  that 
tobacco  was  the  only  thing  that  kept  his  nerves  quiet.” 
Among  the  topics  discussed  were  the  “ Idylls  ” which 
Kingsley  admired  only  less  than  “ In  Memoriam.”  Ten 
thousand  copies  had  been  sold  in  the  first  week  of  publi- 
cation, and  hundreds  more  were  selling  monthly.  The 
reviews  that  were  best  in  my  father’s  estimation  appeared 

1 February,  i860. 


444  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l859 

in  the  Spectator , the  Edinburgh  and  the  Quarterly , the 
last  by  Mr  Gladstone  \ 

Letters  to  and  from  friends  about  the  “Idylls” 

From  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I have  requested  my  publishers  in  London,  Messrs 
Routledge,  to  send  you  a copy  of  a translation  of  the  Divina 
Commedia , which  I have  had  the  temerity  to  make,  and  which 
they  are  now  publishing.  In  the  notes  I have  taken  the  liberty 
to  quote  your  beautiful  song  of  Fortune  (from  “ Enid  ”),  and  also 
part  of  “ Ulysses,”  at  which,  I hope,  you  will  not  be  displeased, 
as  you  are  in  very  good  company.  Many  thanks  for  your  kind 
letter  acknowledging  the  (Red  Indian)  red  stone  pipe  of  peace. 
To  a civilized  human  being  I fancy  it  can  never  be  of  any 
practical  use.  But  it  is  pretty,  and  has  a certain  value  as  com- 
ing from  those  far-away  Western  mountains. 

Always  with  great  regard  yours  truly, 

Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

From  W.  M.  Thackeray. 

Folkestone,  September. 

36  Onslow  Square,  October. 

My  dear  Old  Alfred, 

I owe  you  a letter  of  happiness  and  thanks.  Sir, 
about  three  weeks  ago,  when  I was  ill  in  bed,  I read  the  “ Idylls 
of  the  King,”  and  I thought,  “ Oh  I must  write  to  him  now,  for 
this  pleasure,  this  delight,  this  splendour  of  happiness  which  I 
have  been  enjoying.”  But  I should  have  blotted  the  sheets,  ’tis 
ill  writing  on  one’s  back.  The  letter  full  of  gratitude  never 
went  as  far  as  the  post-office  and  how  comes  it  now  ? 

D’abord,  a bottle  of  claret.  (The  landlord  of  the  hotel  asked 
me  down  to  the  cellar  and  treated  me.)  Then  afterwards  sitting 
here,  an  old  magazine,  Fraser s Magazine,  1850,  and  I come  on 
a poem  out  of  “ The  Princess  ” which  says  “ I hear  the  horns  of 

1 For  chapter  on  the  “ Idylls,”  see  Vol.  n.,  p.  121. 


1859] 


LETTER  FROM  THACKERAY. 


445 


Elfland  blowing  blowing,”  no,  it’s  “the  horns  of  Elfland  faintly 
blowing  ” (I  have  been  into  my  bedroom  to  fetch  my  pen  and  it 
has  made  that  blot),  and,  reading  the  lines,  which  only  one  man 
in  the  world  could  write,  I thought  about  the  other  horns  of 
Elfland  blowing  in  full  strength,  and  Arthur  in  gold  armour,  and 
Guinevere  in  gold  hair,  and  all  those  knights  and  heroes  and 
beauties  and  purple  landscapes  and  misty  gray  lakes  in  which 
you  have  made  me  live.  They  seem  like  facts  to  me,  since  about 
three  weeks  ago  (three  weeks  or  a month  was  it  ?)  when  I read 
the  book.  It  is  on  the  table  yonder,  and  I don’t  like,  somehow, 
to  disturb  it,  but  the  delight  and  gratitude ! You  have  made  me 
as  happy  as  I was  as  a child  with  the  Arabian  Nights , every  step 
I have  walked  in  Elfland  has  been  a sort  of  Paradise  to  me. 
(The  landlord  gave  two  bottles  of  his  claret  and  I think  I drank 
the  most)  and  here  I have  been  lying  back  in  the  chair  and 
thinking  of  those  delightful  “ Idylls,”  my  thoughts  being  turned  to 
you : what  could  I do  but  be  grateful  to  that  surprising  genius 
which  has  made  me  so  happy?  Do  you  understand  that  what 
I mean  is  all  true  and  that  I should  break  out  were  you  sitting 
opposite  with  a pipe  in  your  mouth  ? Gold  and  purple  and 
diamonds,  I say,  gentlemen  and  glory  and  love  and  honour,  and 
if  you  haven’t  given  me  all  these  why  should  I be  in  such  an 
ardour  of  gratitude  ? But  I have  had  out  of  that  dear  book  the 
greatest  delight  that  has  ever  come  to  me  since  I was  a young 
man  ; to  write  and  think  about  it  makes  me  almost  young, 
and  this  I suppose  is  what  I’m  doing,  like  an  after-dinner 
speech. 

P.S.  I thought  the  “ Grandmother  ” quite  as  fine.  How  can 
you  at  50  be  doing  things  as  well  as  at  35  ? 

October  16th.  (I  should  think  six  weeks  after  the  writing  of 
the  above.) 

The  rhapsody  of  gratitude  was  never  sent,  and  for  a peculiar 
reason  ; just  about  the  time  of  writing  I came  to  an  arrangement 
with  Smith  and  Elder  to  edit  their  new  magazine,  and  to  have  a 
contribution  from  T.  was  the  publishers’  and  editor’s  highest 
ambition.  But  to  ask  a man  for  a favour,  and  to  praise  and 
bow  down  before  him  in  the  same  page  seemed  to  be  so  like 
hypocrisy,  that  I held  my  hand,  and  left  this  note  in  my  desk, 
where  it  has  been  lying  during  a little  French-Italian-Swiss  tour 
which  my  girls  and  their  papa  have  been  making. 

Meanwhile  S.  E.  and  Co.  have  been  making  their  own 


446 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l859 

proposals  to  you,  and  you  have  replied  not  favourably  I am 
sorry  to  hear:  but  now  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not 
have  my  homages,  and  I am  just  as  thankful  for  the  “ Idylls,” 
and  love  and  admire  them  just  as  much,  as  I did  two  months 
ago  when  I began  to  write  in  that  ardour  of  claret  and  gratitude. 
If  you  can’t  write  for  us  you  can’t.  If  you  can  by  chance  some 
day,  and  help  an  old  friend,  how  pleased  and  happy  I shall  be ! 
This  however  must  be  left  to  fate  and  your  convenience  : I don’t 
intend  to  give  up  hope,  but  accept  the  good  fortune  if  it  comes. 
I see  one,  two,  three  quarterlies  advertized  to-day,  as  all  bringing 
laurels  to  laureatus.  He  will  not  refuse  the  private  tribute  of  an 
old  friend,  will  he  ? You  don’t  know  how  pleased  the  girls  were 
at  Kensington  t’other  day  to  hear  you  quote  their  father’s  little 
verses,  and  he  too  I daresay  was  not  disgusted.  He  sends  you 
and  yours  his  very  best  regards  in  this  most  heartfelt  and 
artless 

(note  of  admiration)! 

Always  yours,  my  dear  Alfred, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


To  W.  M.  Thackeray . 

Farringford. 

My  dear  Thackeray, 

Should  I not  have  answered  you  ere  this  6th 
of  November?  surely:  what  excuse  ? none  that  I know 
of : except  indeed,  that  perhaps  your  very  generosity  and 
boundlessness  of  approval  made  me  in  a measure  shame- 
faced. I could  scarcely  accept  it,  being,  I fancy,  a 
modest  man,  and  always  more  or  less  doubtful  of  my 
own  efforts  in  any  line.  But  I may  tell  you  that  your 
little  note  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  all  the  journals 
and  monthlies  and  quarterlies  which  have  come  across 
me:  not  so  much  from  your  being  the  Great  Novelist  I 
hope  as  from  your  being  my  good  old  friend,  or  perhaps 
from  your  being  both  of  these  in  one.  Well,  let  it  be. 
I have  been  ransacking  all  sorts  of  old  albums  and  scrap 
books  but  cannot  find  anything  worthy  sending  you. 


LETTER  TO  THACKERAY. 


447 


1859] 

Unfortunately  before  your  letter  arrived  I had  agreed  to 
give  Macmillan  the  only  available  poem  I had  by  me 
(“Sea  Dreams”)1.  I don’t  think  he  would  have  got  it 
(for  I dislike  publishing  in  magazines)  except  that  he  had 
come  to  visit  me  in  my  Island,  and  was  sitting  and 
blowing  his  weed  vis-a-vis.  I am  sorry  that  you  have 
engaged  for  any  quantity  of  money  to  let  your  brains  be 
sucked  periodically  by  Smith,  Elder  & Co. : not  that  I 
don’t  like  Smith  who  seems  from  the  very  little  I have 
seen  of  him  liberal  and  kindly,  but  that  so  great  an  artist 
as  you  are  should  go  to  work  after  this  fashion.  When- 
ever you  feel  your  brains  as  the  “ remainder  biscuit,”  or 
indeed  whenever  you  will,  come  over  to  me  and  take  a 
blow  on  these  downs  where  the  air  as  Keats  said  is 
“ worth  sixpence  a pint,”  and  bring  your  girls  too. 

Yours  always,  A.  Tennyson. 

From  the  Duke  of  Argyll. 

London,  July  14  th,  1859. 

My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I think  my  prediction  is  coming  true,  that  your 
“ Idylls  of  the  King  ” will  be  understood  and  admired  by  many 
who  are  incapable  of  understanding  and  appreciating  many 
of  your  other  works. 

Macaulay  is  certainly  not  a man  incapable  of  understanding 
anything  but  I knew  that  his  tastes  in  poetry  were  so  formed  in 
another  line  that  I considered  him  a good  test,  and  three  days 
ago  I gave  him  “Guinevere.” 

The  result  has  been  as  I expected,  that  he  has  been  delighted 
with  it.  He  told  me  that  he  had  been  greatly  moved  by  it,  and 
admired  it  exceedingly.  Altho’  by  practice  and  disposition  he 
is  eminently  a critic,  he  did  not  find  one  single  fault.  Yesterday 
I gave  him  the  “ Maid  of  Astolat  ” with  which  he  was  delighted 
also. 

I hear  the  article  in  the  Edin.  Reviezv  is  not  to  contain 

1 “Tithonus  ” was  sent  to  Thackeray  for  the  Cornhill , February,  i860. 


448  HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.”  [l859 

much  criticism,  it  consists  to  a great  extent  of  long  extracts. 
But  I have  not  seen  it  myself,  nor  am  I sure  who  wrote  it. 

How  are  you  standing  this  tropical  heat,  and  Mrs  Tennyson? 
Let  us  have  a good  account  of  yourselves. 

This  Peace  is  abominable,  and  you  should  be  perpetually, 
telescope  in  hand,  watching  for  the  “ Liberator  of  Italy,”  who 
has  proclaimed  to  his  soldiers  that  he  stops  because  the  contest 
is  no  longer  in  the  interests  of  France  ! 

Yours  most  sincerely,  Argyll. 

To  the  Duke  of  Argyll ’ 

Farringford, 

Monday , July  i%th,  1859. 

My  dear  Duke, 

Doubtless  Macaulay’s  good  opinion  is  worth 
having  and  I am  grateful  to  you  for  letting  me  know  it, 
but  this  time  I intend  to  be  thick-skinned ; nay,  I 
scarcely  believe  that  I should  ever  feel  very  deeply  the 
pen-punctures  of  those  parasitic  animalcules  of  the  press, 
if  they  kept  themselves  to  what  I write,  and  did  not 
glance  spitefully  and  personally  at  myself.  I hate  spite. 

*75'  *7V' 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 

Best  remembrances  to  the  Duchess. 


From  the  Rev . B.  Jowett . 

19  Gloucester  Terrace, 

July  ijlh,  1859. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

Thank  you  many  times  for  your  last : I have  read  it 
through  with  the  greatest  delight,  the  “Maid  of  Astolat”  twice 
over,  and  it  rings  in  my  ears.  “The  Lily  Maid”  seems  to  me 
the  fairest,  purest,  sweetest  love-poem  in  the  English  language. 
I have  not  seen  any  criticisms  nor  do  I care  about  them.  It 
moves  me  like  the  love  of  Juliet  in  Shakespeare  (though  that  is 


1859]  JOWETT’S  OPINION  OF  THE  “IDYLLS.”  449 

not  altogether  parallel),  and  I do  not  doubt  whatever  opinions 
are  expressed  about  it  that  it  will  in  a few  years  be  above 
criticism. 

There  are  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  all  ages  (and  men  as 
well  as  women)  who,  though  they  have  not  died  for  love  (have 
no  intention  of  doing  so),  will  find  there  a sort  of  ideal  consola- 
tion of  their  own  troubles  and  remembrances. 

Of  the  other  poems  I admire  “ Vivien  ” the  most  (the 
naughty  one),  which  seems  to  me  a work  of  wonderful  power 
and  skill. 

It  is  most  elegant  and  fanciful.  I am  not  surprised  at  your 
Delilah  reducing  the  wise  man,  she  is  quite  equal  to  it. 

The  allegory  in  the  distance  greatly  strengthens , also  elevates , 
the  meaning  of  the  poem. 

I shall  not  bore  you  with  criticisms.  It  struck  me  what  a 
great  number  of  lines  — 

He  makes  no  friends,  who  never  made  a foe  — 1 

Then  trust  me  not  at  all,  or  all  in  all  — 

will  pass  current  on  the  lips  of  men,  which  I always  regard  as  a 
great  test  of  excellence,  for  it  is  saying  the  thing  that  everybody 
feels. 

I am  sure  that  the  “ Grandmother  ” is  a most  exquisite 
thing. 

I hope  you  will  find  rest  after  toil  and  listen  to  the  voice 
that  says  “ Rejoice,  Rejoice.” 

Next  week  I shall  probably  be  in  London.  I am  afraid  that 
I shall  not  be  able  to  manage  going  abroad.  But  I should  like 
to  come  and  look  in  upon  you  if  you  are  at  any  house  where  it 
would  be  convenient  to  you  to  see  me. 

With  most  kind  regards  to  Mrs  Tennyson  and  love  to  the 
children, 

Believe  me  ever  most  truly  yours, 

B.  Jowett. 

1 This  line  my  father  generally  wrote  in  autograph  albums. 


t.  1. 


29 


450  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l859 

From  Arthur  H.  Clough . 

Council  Office, 

i Sth  July , 1859. 

Dear  Mrs  Tennyson, 

The  Welsh  books  appeared  suddenly  one  morning, 
by  what  agency  I do  not  know,  and  I have  already  appeased  my 
uncle’s  bibliomaniac  fears  by  communicating  the  fact  of  their 
arrival. 

The  reception  of  the  “ Idylls  of  the  King  ” will  I hope  satisfy 
all  Farringford. 

I have  heard  no  words  of  dispraise : and  in  my  own  opinion 
they  are  just  what  we  had  a right  to  hope  for,  better,  because 
more  fully  given,  without  any  disparagement  to  what  went 
before. 

Faithfully  yours,  A.  H.  Clough. 

From  the  Duke  of  Argyll . 

July  20  thy  1859. 

My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I hope  you  will  give  me  note  of  your  arrival  in  town. 

The  applause  of  the  “ Idylls  ” goes  on  crescendo,  and  so  far 
as  I can  hear  without  exception.  Detractors  are  silenced. 

Macaulay  has  repeated  to  me  several  times  an  expression  of 
his  great  admiration.  Another  well-known  Author,  himself  a 
Poet,  whom  I shall  not  name,  who  heretofore  could  go  no  further 
than  a half  unwilling  approval  of  the  “ Lotos-Eaters,”  has 
succumbed  to  the  “ Idylls,”  has  laid  down  his  arms,  without 
reserve.  I consider  him  a test  and  index  of  a large  class  of 
minds.  I have  heard  of  several  other  obdurate  sinners  who 
have  been  converted  from  the  error  of  their  ways. 

Gladstone,  who  is  not  one  of  the  class,  has  spoken  to  me, 
and  has  written  to  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland  that  the  impres- 
sion of  the  power  and  beauty  of  these  Poems  increases  daily  in 
reading  them. 

I am  delighted,  specially  from  my  love  of  natural  history, 
with  some  of  your  imagery  from  natural  things. 

The  passage  comparing  the  voice  of  Enid  to  the  first  heard 
song  of  the  nightingale  is  singularly  beautiful  in  expression.  So 


1859]  LETTER  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  45 1 

is  that  passage  comparing  the  dispersion  of  Geraint’s  foes  to  the 
shoals  of  fish  among  the  “ crystal  dykes  of  Camelot.” 

By  the  bye  I have  always  omitted  to  ask  you  what  you  mean 
in  one  of  your  old  poems  by  “ The  Red-Cap 1 whistled.”  I 
know  of  no  such  bird : don’t  you  mean  the  Black- Cap,  which 
does  whistle  beautifully  ? The  Golden-crested  Wren  is  never 
called  “ Red-Cap,”  nor  can  it  be  said  to  whistle,  tho’  it  has  a 
loud  song. 

L.  Nap.’s  explanation  of  the  Peace  is,  I have  no  doubt,  a 
tolerably  correct  account.  But  it  will  seem  a bitter  mockery  to 
those  whose  “ illusions  ” he  encouraged,  and  now  contemns. 

Can  you  send  me  a copy  of  your  song  “The  Great  Name  of 
England  round  and  round  ” ? Do. 

Yours  ever,  Argyll. 


To  the  Duke  of  Argyll. 


My  dear  Duke, 


B.  L.  Lushington's , 

Park  House,  Maidstone, 

July  29 th1  1859. 


Your  last  note  was  very  welcome  to  me  and 
if  I did  not  answer  it  earlier,  why,  I was  all  the  more  to 
blame ; answered  partly  it  was  by  my  wife’s  copy  of  the 
song2  requested,  which  I hope  arrived  safely.  She  has 
set  it  to  music  far  more  to  the  purpose  than  most  of 
Master  Balfe’s. 

“ Red-cap  ” is,  or  was  when  I was  a lad,  provincial 
for  “ Gold-finch  ” ; had  I known  it  was  purely  provincial  I 
should  probably  not  have  used  it.  Now  the  passage  has 
stood  so  long  that  I am  loth  to  alter  it. 


Ever  yours,  A.  Tennyson. 


1 Provincial  name  for  the  goldfinch. 

2 “ Riflemen,  F orm ! ” 


452 


HOME  LIFE  AND 


“ IDYLLS.” 


From  my  father  s mother . 

Rose  Manor,  Well  Walk. 

Monday , Jan.  10th , i860. 

Dearest  Ally, 

I received  a nice  kind  note  from  Alan  Ker  a short 
time  since,  which  I now  enclose,  thinking  it  will  give  thee 
pleasure  to  know  what  he  says  about  thy  last  beautiful  and 
interesting  poems.  It  does  indeed  (as  he  supposes  it  would) 
give  me  the  purest  satisfaction  to  notice  that  a spirit  of  Christi- 
anity is  perceptible  through  the  whole  volume.  It  gladdens  my 
heart  also  to  perceive  that  Alan  seems  to  estimate  it  greatly  on 
that  account.  O dearest  Ally,  how  fervently  have  I prayed  for 
years  that  our  merciful  Redeemer  would  intercede  with  our 
Heavenly  Father,  to  grant  thee  His  Holy  Spirit  to  urge  thee 
to  employ  the  talents  He  has  given  thee,  by  taking  every 
opportunity  of  endeavouring  to  impress  the  precepts  of  His 
Holy  Word  on  the  minds  of  others.  My  beloved  son,  words 
are  too  feeble  to  express  the  joy  of  my  heart  in  perceiving  that 
thou  art  earnestly  endeavouring  to  do  so.  Dearest  Ally,  there 
is  nothing  for  a moment  to  be  compared  to  the  favour  of  God : 
I need  not  ask  thee  if  thou  art  of  the  same  opinion.  Thy 
writings  are  a convincive  proof  that  thou  art.  My  beloved  child, 
when  our  Heavenly  Father  summons  us  hence,  may  we  meet, 
and  all  that  are  dear  to  us,  in  that  blessed  state  where  sorrow  is 
unknown,  never  more  to  be  separated.  I hope  Emmy  and 
thyself  continue  well,  also  the  dear  little  boys.  All  here  join  me 
in  kindest  love  to  both. 

Ever,  dearest  Ally, 

Thy  attached  and  loving  mother, 

E.  Tennyson. 


From  J.  Ruskin . 

Strasburg. 

Dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I have  had  the  “ Idylls  ” in  my  travelling  desk  ever 
since  I could  get  them  across  the  water,  and  have  only  not 
written  about  them  because  I could  not  quite  make  up  my  mind 
about  that  increased  quietness  of  style.  I thought  you  would 


I860]  RUSKIN  ON  THE  POEMS.  453 

like  a little  to  know  what  I felt  about  it,  but  did  not  quite  know 
myself  what  I did  feel. 

To  a certain  extent  you  yourself  of  course  know  better  what 
the  work  is  than  anyone  else,  as  all  great  artists  do. 

If  you  are  satisfied  with  it,  I believe  it  to  be  right.  Satisfied 
with  bits  of  it  you  must  be,  and  so  must  all  of  us,  however  much 
we  expect  from  you. 

The  four  songs  seem  to  me  the  jewels  of  the  crown,  and  bits 
come  every  here  and  there,  the  fright  of  the  maid  for  instance, 
and  the  “ In  the  darkness  o’er  her  fallen  head,”  which  seem  to 
me  finer  than  almost  all  you  have  done  yet.  Nevertheless  I am 
not  sure  but  I feel  the  art  and  finish  in  these  poems  a little  more 
than  I like  to  feel  it1.  Yet  I am  not  a fair  judge  quite,  for  I am 
so  much  of  a realist  as  not  by  any  possibility  to  interest  myself 
much  in  an  unreal  subject  to  feel  it  as  I should,  and  the  very 
sweetness  and  stateliness  of  the  words  strike  me  all  the  more  as 
pure  workmanship. 

As  a description  of  various  nobleness  and  tenderness  the 
book  is  without  price : but  I shall  always  wish  it  had  been 
nobleness  independent  of  a romantic  condition  of  externals  in 
general. 

“In  Memoriam,”  “Maud,”  “The  Miller’s  Daughter,”  and 
such  like  will  always  be  my  own  pet  rhymes,  yet  I am  quite 
prepared  to  admit  this  to  be  as  good  as  any,  for  its  own  peculiar 
audience.  Treasures  of  wisdom  there  are  in  it,  and  word- 
painting  such  as  never  was  yet  for  concentration,  nevertheless  it 
seems  to  me  that  so  great  power  ought  not  to  be  spent  on 
visions  of  things  past  but  on  the  living  present.  For  one  hearer 
capable  of  feeling  the  depth  of  this  poem  I believe  ten  would 
feel  a depth  quite  as  great  if  the  stream  flowed  through  things 
nearer  the  hearer.  And  merely  in  the  facts  of  modern  life,  not 

1 So  far  as  the  word  art , as  used  here  by  Mr  Ruskin,  suggests  that  these 
Idylls  were  carefully  elaborated,  the  suggestion  is  hardly  in  accordance  with 
the  fact.  The  more  imaginative  the  poem,  the  less  time  it  generally 
took  him  to  compose.  “ Guinevere  ” and  “ Elaine  ” were  certainly  not 
elaborated,  seeing  that  they  were  written,  each  of  them,  in  a few  weeks,  and 
hardly  corrected  at  all.  My  father  said  that  he  often  did  not  know  why 
some  passages  were  thought  specially  beautiful,  until  he  had  examined  them. 
He  added : “ Perfection  in  art  is  perhaps  more  sudden  sometimes  than  we 
think ; but  then  the  long  preparation  for  it,  that  unseen  germination,  that  is 
what  we  ignore  and  forget.” 


454 


[i860 


HOME  LIFE  AND  “ IDYLLS.” 

drawing-room  formal  life,  but  the  far  away  and  quite  unknown 
growth  of  souls  in  and  through  any  form  of  misery  or  servitude, 
there  is  an  infinity  of  what  men  should  be  told,  and  what  none 
but  a poet  can  tell.  I cannot  but  think  that  the  intense  masterful 
and  unerring  transcript  of  an  actuality,  and  the  relation  of  a 
story  of  any  real  human  life  as  a poet  would  watch  and  analyze 
it,  would  make  all  men  feel  more  or  less  what  poetry  was,  as  they 
felt  what  Life  and  Fate  were  in  their  instant  workings. 

This  seems  to  me  the  true  task  of  the  modern  poet.  And  I 
think  I have  seen  faces,  and  heard  voices  by  road  and  street 
side,  which  claimed  or  conferred  as  much  as  ever  the  loveliest  or 
saddest  of  Camelot.  As  I watch  them,  the  feeling  continually 
weighs  upon  me,  day  by  day,  more  and  more,  that  not  the  grief 
of  the  world  but  the  loss  of  it  is  the  wonder  of  it.  I see 
creatures  so  full  of  all  power  and  beauty,  with  none  to  understand 
or  teach  or  save  them.  The  making  in  them  of  miracles  and  all 
cast  away,  for  ever  lost  as  far  as  we  can  trace.  And  no  “ in 
memoriam.” 

I do  not  ask  when  you  are  likely  to  be  in  London  for  I 
know  you  do  not  like  writing  letters,  and  I know  you  will  let 
Mrs  Prinsep  or  Watts  send  me  word  about  you,  so  that  I may 
come  and  see  you  again,  when  you  do  come ; and  then  on 
some  bright  winter’s  day,  I shall  put  in  my  plea  for  Denmark 
Hill. 

Meanwhile  believe  me  always 

Faithfully  and  gratefully  yours,  J.  Ruskin. 


Part  of  a letter  from  Aubrey  de  Vere. 


i860. 

Love  to  Alfred,  from  whom  I hope  to  have  more  of  those 
glorious  chivalrous  legends.  * * * 

Alfred  seems  to  be  founding  a school  just  as  Raffaelle  and 
Titian  founded  their  respective  Roman  and  Venetian  schools. 
There  cannot  be  a truer  tribute  to  genius  than  this.  It  proves 
that  it  has  struck  roots  in  the  national  mind. 


LETTER  FROM  THE  PRINCE  CONSORT. 


455 


From  H.R.H.  Prince  Albert . 

Buckingham  Palace, 

i 7th  May , i860. 

My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

Will  you  forgive  me  if  I intrude  upon  your  leisure 
with  a request  which  I have  thought  some  little  time  of  making, 
viz.  that  you  would  be  good  enough  to  write  your  name  in  the 
accompanying  volume  of  your  “Idylls  of  the  King”  ? You 
would  thus  add  a peculiar  interest  to  the  book,  containing  those 
beautiful  songs,  from  the  perusal  of  which  I derived  the  greatest 
enjoyment.  They  quite  rekindle  the  feeling  with  which  the 
legends  of  King  Arthur  must  have  inspired  the  chivalry  of  old, 
whilst  the  graceful  form  in  which  they  are  presented  blends 
those  feelings  with  the  softer  tone  of  our  present  age. 

Believe  me  always  yours  truly,  Albert. 


From  the  Rev . Charles  Kingsley . 


Eversley  Rectory,  Winchfield, 

Nov.  10  th,  1859. 

My  dear  Tennyson, 

I was  amused  to-night  at  a burst  of  enthusiasm  in 
your  behalf  from  a most  unenthusiastic  man  (though  a man  of 
taste  and  scholarship),  Walter  the  proprietor  of  the  Times.  He 
contest  to  having  been  a disbeliever  in  you,  save  in  “ Locksley 
Hall,”  which  he  said  was  the  finest  modern  lyric;  but  he 
considered  you  had  taken  liberties,  and  so  forth.  But  the 
“ Idylls,”  he  contest,  had  beaten  him.  He  thought  them  the 
finest  modern  poem.  There  was  nothing  he  did  not  or  would 
not  say  in  praise  of  them.  He  now  classed  the  four  great 
English  poets  as  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  Byron,  Tennyson,  and 
so  on,  and  so  on,  very  pleasant  to  me  though  little  worth  to  you. 
But  I like  to  tell  you  of  a “ jamjam  efficaci  do  manus  scientiae  ” 
from  anyone  who  has  not  as  yet  appreciated  you,  to  his  own 
harm.  He  did  not  write  the  disagreeable  review  of  you  in  the 
Times  some  years  back.  It  was,  I believe,  a poor  envious, 

dyspeptic,  poetaster  parson, . I tell  you  this  for  fear  you 

should  think  Walter,  who  is  really  a fine  fellow,  had  anything  to 
do  with  it. 


God  bless  you,  C.  Kingsley. 


456  HOME  LIFE  AND  “IDYLLS.”  [l859- 

To  the  Duke  of  Argyll. 

Farringford, 

Oct.  3rd,  1859. 

My  dear  Duke, 

We  are  delighted  to  hear  that  your  Duchess 
has  added  another  scion  to  your  race,  and  that  mother 
and  child  are  both  prospering.  I had  fancied  that  the 
event  would  have  come  off  while  I was  in  Portugal  (for 
in  Portugal  I have  been),  and  made  enquiries  thereanent 
of  Mr  Henry  Howard1  but  he  could  tell  me  nothing. 

If  I came  back  with  “bullion”  in  the  “Tagus,”  it  was 
nowhere  in  my  packages.  I went  to  see  that  Cintra 
which  Byron  and  Beckford  have  made  so  famous  : but 
the  orange-trees  were  all  dead  of  disease,  and  the  crystal 
streams  (with  the  exception  of  a few  sprinkling  springlets 
by  the  wayside)  either  dried  up,  or  diverted  thro’  unseen 
tunnels  into  the  great  aqueduct  of  Lisbon.  Moreover 
the  place  is  cockney,  and,  when  I was  there,  was  crammed 
with  Lisbon  fashionables  and  Portuguese  nobility;  yet 
Cintra  is  not  without  its  beauties,  being  a mountain  of 
green  pines  rising  out  of  an  everywhere  arid  and  tawny 
country,  with  a fantastic  Moorish-looking  castle  on  the 
peak,  which  commands  a great  sweep  of  the  Atlantic  and 
the  mouth  of  the  Tagus:  here  on  the  topmost  tower  sat 
the  king  (they  say)  day  by  day  in  the  old  times  of  Vasco 
da  Gama  watching  for  his  return,  till  he  saw  him  enter 
the  river : there,  perhaps,  was  a moment  worth  having 
been  waited  for.  I made  some  pleasant  acquaintances, 
but  I could  not  escape  autograph  hunters;  a certain  Don 
Pedro  Something  even  telegraphed  for  one  after  I had 
returned  to  Lisbon. 

As  to  Macaulay’s  suggestion  of  the  Sangreal,  I doubt 
whether  such  a subject  could  be  handled  in  these  days, 
without  incurring  a charge  of  irreverence.  It  would  be 

O O 

1 English  Minister  at  Lisbon  in  1859. 


457 


18G0]  “ THE  PHILOSOPHER.” 

too  much  like  playing  with  sacred  things.  The  old 
writers  believed  in  the  Sangreal.  Many  years  ago  I did 
write  “ Lancelot’s  Quest  of  the  Grail  ” in  as  good  verses 
as  I ever  wrote,  no,  I did  not  write,  I made  it  in  my  head, 
and  it  has  now  altogether  slipt  out  of  memory. 

My  wife,  I am  sorry  to  say,  has  been  very  unwell. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 


Unpublished  Poem  of  this  Period. 

The  Philosopher . 

He  was  too  good  and  kind  and  sweet, 

Ev’n  when  I knew  him  in  his  hour 
Of  darkest  doubt,  and  in  his  power, 

To  fling  his  doubts  into  the  street. 

Truth-seeking  he  and  not  afraid, 

But  questions  that  perplex  us  now  — 

What  time  (he  thought)  have  loom  or  plough 
To  weigh  them  as  they  should  be  weighed? 

We  help  the  blatant  voice  abroad 
To  preach  the  freedom  of  despair, 

And  from  the  heart  of  all  things  fair 
To  pluck  the  sanction  of  a God. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


TOUR  IN  CORNWALL  AND  THE  SCILLY  ISLES. 

i860. 

So  great  had  been  the  success  of  the  first  four  “Idylls 
of  the  King  ” that  my  father’s  friends  begged  him  to 
“ continue  the  epic.”  He  received  a letter  from  the  Duke 
of  Argyll  again  urging  him  to  take  up  as  his  next  subject 
the  Holy  Grail,  but  he  said  he  shunned  handling  the 
subject,  for  fear  that  it  might  seem  to  some  almost 
profane.  He  answered : 

i860. 

My  dear  Duke, 

I sympathised  with  you  when  I read  of 
Macaulay’s  death  in  the  Times . He  was,  was  he  not, 
your  next-door  neighbour?  I can  easily  conceive  what 
a loss  you  must  have  had  in  the  want  of  his  brilliant 
conversation.  I hardly  knew  him : met  him  once,  I re- 
member, when  Hallam  and  Guizot  were  in  his  company: 
Hallam  was  showing  Guizot  the  Houses  of  Parliament 
then  building,  and  Macaulay  went  on  like  a cataract 
for  an  hour  or  so  to  those  two  great  men,  and,  when 
they  had  gone,  turned  to  me  and  said,  “ Good  morn- 
ing, I am  happy  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  making 
your  acquaintance,”  and  strode  away.  Had  I been  a 
piquable  man  I should  have  been  piqued,  but  I don’t 
think  I was,  for  the  movement  after  all  was  amicable. 

458 


I860]  “ BOADICEA.”  459 

Of  the  two  books  I should,  I think,  have  chosen  the 
Crabbe,  though  Macaulay’s  criticisms  on  poetry  would 
be  less  valuable  probably  than  his  historical  ones.  Peace 
be  with  him  ! 

As  to  the  Sangreal ’ as  I gave  up  the  subject  so 
many  long  years  ago  I do  not  think  that  I shall  resume 
it.  You  will  see  a little  poem  of  mine  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine . My  friend  Thackeray  and  his  publishers 

had  been  so  urgent  with  me  to  send  them  something, 
that  I ferreted  among  my  old  books  and  found  this 
“ Tithonus,”  written  upwards  of  a quarter  of  a century 
ago,  and  now  queerly  enough  at  the  tail  of  a flashy 
modern  novel.  It  was  originally  a pendent  to  the 
“ Ulysses  ” in  my  former  volumes,  and  I wanted  Smith 
to  insert  a letter,  not  of  mine,  to  the  editor  stating  this, 
and  how  long  ago  it  had  been  written,  but  he  thought 
it  would  lower  the  value  of  the  contribution  in  the 
public  eye.  Read  in  Browning’s  Men  and  Women 
‘‘Evelyn  Hope”  for  its  beauty,  and  “Bishop  Blougram’s 
Apology  ” for  its  exceeding  cleverness,  and  I think  that 
you  will  not  deny  him  his  own.  The  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine  gives  a very  pleasant  account  of  Macaulay. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 

The  Duke  and  the  Duchess  spent  some  days  at 
Farringford,  and  were  most  emphatic  that  the  “ Grail  ” 
ought  to  be  written  forthwith.  My  father  said  that  he 
was  not  “ at  present  in  the  mood  for  it,”  and  read  aloud 
his  “ Boadicea,”  which  he  had  now  quite  finished.  He 
gloried  in  his  new  English  metre,  but  he  “feared 
that  no  one  could  read  it  except  himself,  and  wanted 
someone  to  annotate  it  musically  so  that  people  could 
understand  the  rhythm.”  “ If  they  would  only  read 
it  straight  like  prose,”  he  said,  “ just  as  it  is  written, 
it  would  come  all  right.”  Among  other  guests  was 


460  TOUR  IN  CORNWALL  AND  THE  SCILLY  ISLES.  [i860 

Lord  Dufferin,  full  of  Cyril  Graham’s  discoveries  of 
the  white  marble  cities  in  the  black  basaltic  land  of  the 
Hauran  with  their  inscriptions  in  an  unknown  tongue. 
Then  the  missionary  Dr  Wolff  stayed  with  us,  recounting 
his  hairbreadth  escapes  in  Central  Asia,  and  giving  an 
awe-inspiring  description  of  an  earthquake  in  Bokhara. 

It  was  not  until  August  that  my  father  was  able 
to  go  on  his  summer  tour  to  Cornwall  and  the  Scilly 
Isles,  in  company  with  Woolner,  Palgrave,  Holman  Hunt 
and  Val  Prinsep. 

My  father  s letter-diary . Tour  in  Cornwall  and 

the  Scilly  Isles . 

August  18th.  All  Souls’  Reading  Room,  Oxford. 
Before  my  departure  Palgrave  called  with  his  Syrian 
brother,  a very  interesting  man  in  an  Eastern  dress 
with  a kind  of  turban,  having  just  escaped  from  his 
convent  in  the  Syrian  Deserts  where  several  of  his 
fellow  monks  were  massacred.  Palgrave  is  obliged 
to  stop  for  a week  at  Hampstead  till  the  brother  goes 
to  Paris,  where  he  will  have  an  interview  with  the 
Emperor  on  the  affairs  of  the  East.  I started  off  alone,, 
and  I believe  that  in  a week’s  time  Holman  Hunt,  Val 
Prinsep  and  Frank  Palgrave  will  join  me  at  Penzance. 
Woolner,  like  a good  fellow,  followed  me  here  yesterday 
that  I might  not  feel  lonely,  and  this  morning  we  break- 
fasted with  Max  Muller,  and  are  going  to  dine  with 
him  at  7. 

August  2 1st.  Bideford.  We  came  here  last  night 
at  7 o’clock.  I and  Woolner  are  going  down  the  coast 
to  Tintagel,  where  we  shall  stop  till  the  others  join  us. 

August  23 rd.  Bude.  Fine  sea  here,  smart  rain 
alternating  with  weak  sunshine.  Woolner  is  very  kindly. 
We  go  off  to-day  to  Boscastle  which  is  three  miles  from 
Tintagel. 

O 


TINTAGEL. 


461 


I860] 

August  23 rd.  Arrived  at  Tintagel,  grand  coast, 
furious  rain.  Mr  Poelaur  would  be  a good  name  to 
direct  to  me  by. 

August  25 th.  Tintagel.  Black  cliffs  and  caves  and 
storm  and  wind,  but  I weather  it  out  and  take  my  ten 
miles  a day  walks  in  my  weather-proofs.  Palgrave  arrived 
to-day. 


To  Hallam . 

Tintagel, 

Aug . 25 th,  i860. 

My  dear  Hallam, 

I was  very  glad  to  receive  your  little  letter. 
Mind  that  you  and  Lionel  do  not  quarrel  and  vex  poor 
mamma  who  has  lots  of  work  to  do ; and  learn  your 
lessons  regularly  ; for  gentlemen  and  ladies  will  not  take 
you  for  a gentleman  when  you  grow  up  if  you  are 
ignorant.  Here  are  great  black  cliffs  of  slate-rock,  and 
deep,  black  caves,  and  the  ruined  castle  of  King  Arthur, 
and  I wish  that  you  and  Lionel  and  mamma  were  here 
to  see  them.  Give  my  love  to  grandpapa  and  to  Lionel, 
and  work  well  at  your  lessons.  I shall  be  glad  to  find 
you  know  more  and  more  every  day. 

Your  loving  papa,  A.  Tennyson. 

August  2 Stk.  Tintagel.  We  believe  that  we  are 
going  to-morrow  to  Penzance  or  in  that  direction.  We 
have  had  two  fine  days  and  some  exceedingly  grand 
coast  views.  Here  is  an  artist,  a friend  of  Woolner’s 
(Inchbold),  sketching  now  in  this  room.  I am  very 
tired  of  walking  against  wind  and  rain. 

[Mr  Palgrave  writes:  Following  the  publication  of  the  first 
four  “ Idylls  of  the  King”  in  1859,  when  he  was  intending  to 
write  further  Idylls,  this  was,  perhaps,  specially  entitled  to  be 
named  Tennyson’s  Arthurian  journey. 

At  a sea  inlet  of  wonderful  picturesqueness,  so  grandly 


462  TOUR  IN  CORNWALL  AND  THE  SCILLY  ISLES.  [i860 

modelled  are  the  rocks  which  wall  it,  so  translucently  purple  the 
waves  that  are  its  pavement,  — waves  whence  the  “ naked  babe  ” 
Arthur  came  ashore  in  flame,  — stand  the  time-eaten  ruins  of 
unknown  date  which  bear  the  name  Tintagel.  To  these  of  course 
we  climbed,  — descending  from  “ the  castle  gateway  by  the 
chasm,”  and  at  a turn  in  the  rocks  meeting  that  ever  graceful, 
ill-appreciated  landscapist,  Inchbold : whose  cry  of  delighted 
wonder  at  sight  of  Tennyson  still  sounds  in  the  sole  survivor’s 
ear.  Thence,  after  some  delightful  wandering  walks,  by  a dreary 
road  (for  such  is  often  the  character  of  central  Cornwall),  we 
moved  to  Camelford  on  the  greatly-winding  stream  which  the 
name  indicates.  Near  the  little  town,  on  the  edge  of  the  river,  is 
shown  a large  block  of  stone  upon  which  legend  places  Arthur, 
hiding  or  meditating,  after  his  last  fatal  battle.  It  lay  below  the 
bank ; and  in  his  eagerness  to  reach  it  and  sit  down  (as  he 
sat  in  1851  on  that  other,  the  Sasso  di  Dante  by  Sta.  Maria  del 
Fiore),  Arthur’s  poet  slipped  right  into  the  stream,  and  returned 
laughing  to  Camelford. 

The  next  halting-place  I remember  was  Penzance ; whence, 
by  Marazion,  we  crossed  to  and  saw  our  English  smaller  but 
yet  impressive  and  beautiful  St  Michael’s  Mount 1.] 

Atigust  315A  Union  Hotel,  Penzance.  I am  so 
very  much  grieved  for  poor  Simeon’s  loss  of  his  wife ; 
it  casts  a gloom  on  my  little  tour:  what  will  he  do 
without  her  and  with  all  those  children  ? I have  now 
walked  10  miles  a day  for  10  days,  equal  100,  and 
I want  to  continue  doing  that  for  some  time  longer.  I 
am  going  to-morrow  to  Land’s  End  and  then  I must 
return  here,  and  then  1 go  to  the  Scilly  Isles  and  then 
again  return  here. 

Sept.  fih.  Land’s  End  Inn.  I will  write  to  Simeon 
to-day,  tho’  I rather  shun  writing  to  him  on  such  a 
subject,  for  what  can  one  say,  what  comfort  can  one 
give?  We  are  here  at  this  racketty,  rather  dirty  inn, 
but  we  have  had  four  glorious  days  and  magnificently 
coloured  seas . To-day  the  Scilly  Isles  look  so  dark  and 
clear  on  the  horizon  that  one  expects  rain. 

1 Palgrave  MS. 


I860] 


THE  SCILLY  ISLES. 


463 


[I  was  struck  — Mr  Palgrave  notes  again  — on  the  plateau 
of  Sennen  by  the  likeness  between  the  masses  of  rock,  piled  up 
by  Nature  only,  and  those  cromlechs  which  also  occur  in  Corn- 
wall ; “ Do  you  not  remember  that  Wordsworth  has  a sonnet  on 
this  point?”  Tennyson  said,  alluding  to  that  beginning 

“ Mark  the  concentred  hazels...  ” 

adding,  “ He  seems  to  have  been  always  before  one  in  observa- 
tion of  Nature  V’] 

Sept.  6th.  Penzance.  I start  in  an  hour  by  the 
boat  for  the  Scilly  Islands.  The  weather  is  splendid, 
and  the  sea  as  calm  as  any  lake  shut  in  on  all  sides  by 
hills.  Woolner  goes  back  to  London  and  Palgrave 
continues  with  me. 

Sept . 9 th.  St  Mary’s,  Scilly  Isles.  Captain  Tre- 
garthen,  who  has  the  packet  and  the  hotel  here,  has 
brought  me  my  letters : the  packet  only  goes  three  times 
a week.  I shall  stop  here  till  Wednesday;  there  are 
West  Indian  aloes  here  30  feet  high,  in  blossom,  and 
out  all  the  winter,  yet  the  peaches  won’t  ripen ; vast 
hedges  of  splendid  geraniums,  a delight  to  the  eye, 
yet  the  mulberry  won’t  ripen.  These  Islands  are  very 
peculiar  and  in  some  respects  very  fine.  I never  saw 
anything  quite  like  them. 

Sept.  nth.  Three  Tuns,  Lizard.  At  the  Lizard; 
and  intend  coming  on  to  Falmouth.  Hope  to  be  at 
Brockenhurst  next  Saturday,  but  if  not  there,  I shall 
have  turned  aside  to  see  Avebury  and  Silbury  Hill. 

Sept.  20 th.  Falmouth.  Have  not  found  it  easy  to 
write  every  day  in  the  bustle  and  bother  of  travellers’ 
inns.  I am  now  writing  on  my  knees  in  my  bedroom 
at  a fishmonger’s,  there  being  no  room  at  the  hotel,  and 
the  whole  town  mad  with  a bazaar  for  riflemen,  who 
get  drunk  every  night  and  squabble  and  fight  and 


1 Palgrave  MS. 


464  TOUR  IN  CORNWALL  AND  THE  SCILLY  ISLES.  [i860 

disgrace  themselves  and  their  corps.  We  left  Hunt  and 
Val  Prinsep  hard  at  work  at  the  Lizard,  sketching  on 
a promontory. 

[Mr  Palgrave  concludes  his  notes  on  this  tour  thus:  From 
Falmouth1  a little  river-steamer  was  to  carry  us  to  Truro. 
We  sat  on  deck  enjoying  the  fresh  air  and  sight  of  the 
fine  estuary.  But  upon  /’ incognito  Tennyson  had  reckoned  too 
soon.  Our  captain  presently  came  forward  with  a tray  and  a 
squat  bottle,  and  said  with  unimpeachable  good  manners  that 
“ he  was  aware  how  distinguished  a passenger,  etc.,  and  that 
some  young  men  sitting  opposite,  and  he,  would  be  much 
honoured  if  Mr  Tennyson  would  take  a tumbler  of  stout  with 
them.”  With  as  much  courteous  ease  as  if  he  had  been  a royal 
prince  he  stepped  forward,  said  a few  words  of  graceful  thanks, 
pleased,  and  looking  so ; bowed  to  the  hospitable  party ; and 
drank  off  his  glass  to  their  good  health. 

Presently  the  Captain  reappeared,  and  this  time  it  was  the 
ladies  in  the  cabin  who  begged  that  the  Laureate  would  only 
step  down  among  them.  But  the  height  of  that  small  place  of 
refuge,  Tennyson  declared,  would  render  the  proposed  exhibi- 
tion impossible  ; might  he  not  be  kindly  excused  ? The  good 
women  however  were  not  to  be  baulked  ; and  one  after  another 
presented  her  half-length  above  the  little  hatchway  before  us, 
gazed,  smiled  and  retreated.  “ It  was  like  the  crowned  figures 
who  appear  and  vanish  in  Macbeth ,”  he  said  ; and  so,  talking 
with  our  fellow-passengers  and  the  captain,  in  due  time  we 
disembarked  at  Truro. 

Next  day  a long  and  pleasant  walk  took  us  to  Perran- 
porth,  a little  village  on  the  coast,  which  here  was  a stretch 
of  level  golden  sands,  barred  at  each  end  by  fine  rocks.  Some 
way  hence,  we  were  directed  through  a little  labyrinth  of  dunes 

1 Caroline  Fox  described  my  father  on  this  tour  in  Memories  of  Old 
Friends:  u Tennyson  is  a grand  specimen  of  a man,  with  a magnificent 
head  set  on  his  shoulders  like  the  capital  of  a mighty  pillar.  His  hair  is 
long  and  wavy,  and  covers  a massive  head.  He  wears  a beard  and 
moustache,  which  one  begrudges,  as  hiding  so  much  of  that  firm,  forceful, 
but  finely  chiselled  mouth.  His  eyes  are  large,  gray  (?),  and  open  wide  when 
a subject  interests  him ; they  are  well  shaded  by  the  noble  brow,  with  its 
strong  lines  of  thought  and  suffering.  I can  quite  understand  Sam.  Laurence 
calling  it  the  best  balance  of  head  he  had  ever  seen.” 


I860] 


VERSE-MEMORANDA. 


465 


to  the  famous  buried  church  of  Perranzabuloe.  Only  a few 
sand-heaped  lines  of  wall  remain.  But  St  Piran  is  assigned 
to  the  fifth  century,  and  the  church  might  be  of  Arthur’s  age, 
if  we  place  him  about  that  period1.] 

A vivid  picture  of  my  father,  from  a letter  addressed 
to  my  mother  (23rd  Sept,  i860)  by  Woollier,  may  be 
added : 

“ I expect  idling  about  so  long  will  make  his  brain  so  fertile 
that  when  he  gets  back  to  Farringford  he  will  do  an  immense 
deal  of  work.  He  was  physically  better,  there  can  be  no  question, 
for  he  actually  ate  breakfasts ! and  partook  of  tarts  not  once  but 
twice  at  dinner ! which  he  had  not  done  before  for  many  years : 
and  his  face  had  grown  a reddish  bronze,  a very  healthy  colour ; 
and  he  was  perpetually  making  jokes  at  expense  of  Palgrave,  or 
at  mine,  and  taking  long  walks,  and  swimming,  and  not  smoking 
much,  and  drinking  scarcely  any  wine.  So  you  may  consider 
all  this  as  flourishing.” 

In  my  father’s  note-book  are  written  as  below  the 
following  Verse-Memoranda  of  tours  in  Cornwall,  Isle 
of  Wight  and  Ireland2. 

{Babbicombel)  Like  serpent-coils  upon  the  deep. 

( Torquay .)  As  the  little  thrift 

Trembles  in  perilous  places  o’er  the  deep. 

{From  the  Old  Red  Sandstonet) 

As  a stony  spring 

Blocks  its  own  issue  (tho’  it  makes  a fresh  one  of 
course). 

(. Fowey .)  A cow  drinking  from  a trough  on  the 
hill-side.  The  netted  beams  of  light  played  on  the 
wrinkles  of  her  throat. 

1 Palgrave  MS. 

2 When  I was  walking  with  my  father  almost  for  the  last  time,  he  said  to 
me : “ I generally  take  my  nature-similes  direct  from  my  own  observation  of 
nature,  and  sometimes  jot  them  down,  and  if  by  chance  I find  that  one  of 
my  similes  is  like  that  in  any  author,  my  impulse  is  not  to  use  that  simile.” 
If  he  was  in  the  vein  during  a walk,  he  would  make  dozens  of  similes  that 
were  never  chronicled. 


t.  1. 


30 


466  TOUR  IN  CORNWALL  AND  THE  SCILLY  ISLES.  [i860 

{Cornwall)  The  wildflower,  called  lady’s  finger,  of 
a golden  yellow  when  open’d,  is,  unopen’d,  of  a rich 
orange  red,  frequently  at  least  in  Cornwall  when  I 
observed  it. 

The  open  sea)  Two  great  ships 

That  draw  together  in  a calm. 

(. Bonchurch ) A little  salt  pool  fluttering  round  a 
stone  upon  the  shore. 

(/.  of  Wight) 

As  those  that  lie  on  happy  shores  and  see 
Thro’  the  near  blossom  slip  the  distant  sail. 

{Park  House)  Before  the  leaf, 

When  all  the  trees  stand  in  a mist  of  green. 

After  his  tour  in  Ireland  he  had  written  on  the  same 
page: 

( Valencia)  Claps  of  thunder  on  the  cliffs 

Amid  the  solid  roar. 

{Bray  Head) 

O friend,  the  great  deeps  of  Eternity 
Roar  only  round  the  wasting  cliffs  of  Time. 

{The  river  Shannon , on  the  rapids) 

Ledges  of  battling  water. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


FARRINGFORD  FRIENDS. 

THE  PYRENEES.  DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  CONSORT. 

1860-1862. 

Some  of  the  journals  of  this  period  have  been  mislaid, 
and  Mrs  Bradley  has  allowed  me  to  make  use  of  the 
Reminiscences  written  by  her  during  the  visits  which 
she  and  the  present  Dean  of  Westminster  paid  to  us  at 
Farringford.  They  begin  with  the  first  impression  of 
my  father : 

Here  is  Farringford,  Tennyson’s  home,  with  its  “careless 
ordered  garden  close  to  the  ridge  of  a noble  down  ” buried  in 
trees.  He  invited  Granville  to  dine  with  him  to  meet  “ Lear  the 
artist,  not  the  king,”  at  Farringford  two  or  three  times,  and 
Granville  has  had  walks  and  talks  with  him  and  brings  away 
memories  full  of  pleasure  and  interest.  To  have  come  near  the 
man  and  found  in  him  all  one  could  have  desired  in  a great 
poet ! I must  write  down  my  first  sight  of  him.  I was  on  the 
top  of  the  stack  in  the  yard  having  a birthday  feast,  very  gay 
under  a blue  tent  with  decorations  of  flowers,  etc.  A carriage 
drove  up  to  the  little  gate  of  the  yard,  I could  not  see  who  it 
was  but  guessed  it  was  he.  He  came  to  the  stack  and  looked  up. 
I saw  a tall  large  figure,  cloak  and  large  black  wide-awake. 
He  had  no  beard  or  moustache,  I recollect  being  impressed  with 
the  beauty  and  power  of  his  mouth  and  chin. 

His  face  is  full  of  power  and  thought,  a deep  furrow  runs 
from  nose  to  chin  on  either  side,  and  gives  a peculiar  expression 
to  the  face,  a lofty  forehead  adds  to  this.  I remember  the 
splendour  of  his  eyes.  He  asked  me  who  I was  and  told  me 

467 


468 


mrs  bradley’s  reminiscences. 


[i860 

to  “ throw  the  little  maid  into  his  arms  ” promising  to  catch  her. 
He  asked  Edith  how  old  she  was,  she  said  “ thwee  to-day.”  He 
said,  “ Then  you  and  I have  the  same  birthday,  August  6th.”  He 
did  not  say  much,  but  walked  into  the  little  parlour.  Granville 
came  in  and  they  talked  a little.  Mr  Tennyson  took  up  the 
books  on  the  table  and  remarked  to  himself  about  them. 

He  and  Granville  have  been  on  an  expedition  to  Brooke 
Bay,  geologising,  botanising,  poetising,  talking  of  everything 
great  and  small,  of  life  inward  and  outward,  at  home  and 
abroad,  of  religious  and  social  difficulties;  they  talked  from 
12  noon  to  io  p.m.  almost  incessantly  this  day,  Mr  Tennyson 
walking  back  with  him  to  the  Warren  Farm  still  talking; 
Granville  says  that  beneath  all  the  slight  allusions  to  various 
subjects  in  his  poems  lies  a mine  of  knowledge.  “ He  speaks 
of  poetry  as  a great  master  only  can  do.” 

i860.  Mr  Tennyson  has  read  “ Maud  ” to  us.  He  is  a little 
vexed  at  the  reception  of  “ Maud.”  He  said  : “You  must  always 
stand  up  for  ‘ Maud  ’ when  you  hear  my  pet  bantling  abused. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  I am  sensitive  about  her.  You  know  mothers 
always  make  the  most  of  a child  that  is  abused.”  He  commented 
on  the  poem  as  he  read,  pointed  out  certain  beauties  of  metre  and 
meaning  which  he  admired  himself.  He  excuses  all  that  people 
pronounce  sardonic  in  his  poems,  by  saying,  he  does  not  cry 
out  against  the  age  as  hopelessly  bad,  but  tries  to  point  out 
where  it  is  bad  in  order  that  each  individual  may  do  his  best  to 
redeem  it ; as  the  evils  he  denounces  are  individual,  only  to 
be  cured  by  each  man  looking  to  his  own  heart.  He  denounced 
evil  in  all  its  shapes,  especially  those  considered  venial  by  the 
world  and  society. 

Speaking  of  Alexander  Smith:  “ He  has  plenty  of  promise, 
but  he  must  learn  a different  creed  to  that  he  preaches  in  those 
lines  beginning  ‘Fame,  fame,  thou  art  next  to  God.’  Next  to 
God  — next  to  the  Devil  say  I.  Fame  might  be  worth  having 
if  it  helped  us  to  do  good  to  a single  mortal,  but  what  is  it  ? only 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  oneself  talked  of  up  and  down  the  street.” 

[Death's  Jest-Book  by  Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  he  also 
praised.]  He  tells  stories  very  well,  ghost  and  other  stories,  and 
has  plenty  of  humour.  Amongst  others  he  told  us  several  stories 
of  queer  letters  he  has  had  from  all  sorts  of  people,  companies, 
associations,  etc.  One  young  lady  wrote  imploring  him  to  write 
some  poetry  for  her  to  produce  at  a picnic  when  everyone  was 


COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


469 


I860] 

to  recite  an  original  poem ! He  said  the  deceit  of  passing  off 
his  poem  as  her  own  disgusted  him,  on  the  other  hand  he 
thought  it  plucky  to  tell  him  what  she  meant  to  do,  and  he 
would  have  written  it  for  her,  but  unfortunately  she  signed  her 
note  “ Kate  ” and  sent  no  address. 

Those  evenings  when  the  poet,  sitting  in  his  old  oak  arm- 
chair after  dinner  in  the  drawing-room,  talked  of  what  was  in 
his  heart,  or  read  some  poem  aloud,  with  the  landscape  lying 
before  us  like  a beautiful  picture  framed  in  the  dark-arched  bow- 
window,  are  never  to  be  forgotten.  His  moods  are  so  variable, 
his  conversation  so  earnest,  his  knowledge  of  all  things  he  writes 
about  is  so  wide  and  minute.  It  is  a rare  treat  to  be  in  his  domestic 
circle,  where  he  talks  freely  and  brightly  without  shyness  or  a 
certain  morbidity  which  oppresses  him  occasionally  in  society. 
Crabbe,  Gray  and  Keats  were  the  chief  poets  he  read  to  us. 

There  is  a look  in  his  face  like  a bright  burning  light  behind 
it,  like  an  inward  fire  that  might  consume  his  very  life. 


The  reference  in  the  following  letter  from  my  father 
is  to  an  article  on  “ English  Metrical  Critics  ” contributed 
by  Mr  Patmore  to  the  North  British  Review  for  1857 
(Vol.  xxvii.  pp.  127-161). 

This  is  the  passage  referred  to : 

The  six-syllable  “ iambic  ” is  the  most  solemn  of  all  our 
English  measures.  It  is  scarcely  fit  for  anything  but  a dirge ; 
the  reason  being,  that  the  final  pause  in  this  measure  is  greater, 
when  compared  with  the  length  of  the  line,  than  in  any  other 
verse.  Here  is  an  example,  which  we  select  on  account  of  the 
peculiar  illustration  of  its  nature  as  a “ dimeter  brachy-catalectic,” 
which  is  supplied  by  the  filling  up  of  the  measure  in  the  seventh 
line : 

How  strange  it  is  to  wake 

And  watch,  while  others  sleep, 

Till  sight  and  hearing  ache 
For  objects  that  may  keep 
The  awful  inner  sense 

Unroused,  lest  it  should  mark 
The  life  that  haunts  the  emptiness 
And  horror  of  the  dark. 


470  SPECIMENS  OF  METRE.  [i860 

We  have  only  to  fill  up  the  measure  in  every  line  as  well  as 
the  seventh,  in  order  to  change  this  verse  from  the  slowest  and 
most  mournful,  to  the  most  rapid  and  high-spirited  of  all 
English  metres,  the  common  eight-syllable  quatrain ; a measure 
particularly  recommended  by  the  early  critics,  and  continually 
chosen  by  poets  of  all  times  for  erotic  poetry,  on  account  of  its 
joyous  air. 

It  will  be  seen  that  my  father’s  second  specimen  is 
constructed  by  “filling  up”  Mr  Patmore’s  lines  in  the 
manner  that  he  suggests. 

My  dear  C.  P. 

Specimen  of  the  “ most  solem7i  ” English  metre . 

How  glad  am  I to  walk 
With  Susan  on  the  shore! 

How  glad  am  I to  talk ! 

I kiss  her  o’er  and  o’er. 

I clasp  her  slender  waist, 

We  kiss,  we  are  so  fond, 

When  she  and  I are  thus  embraced, 
There’s  not  a joy  beyond. 

Is  this  C.  P.’s  most  solemn  ? 

Specimen  of  the  “most  high-spirited ” metre . 

How  strange  it  is,  O God,  to  wake, 

To  watch  and  wake  while  others  sleep, 

Till  heart  and  sight  and  hearing  ache 
For  common  objects  that  would  keep 
Our  awful  inner  ghostly  sense 

Unroused,  lest  it  by  chance  should  mark 
The  life  that  haunts  the  emptiness 
And  horrors  of  the  formless  dark. 


Is  this  C.  P.’s  rapid  and  high-spirited  ? A.  T. 


186l]  “THE  NORTHERN  FARMER.”  47 1 

1861. 

January.  The  Bensons1  and  Bradleys  here.  My 
father  spoke  of  seeing  Freshwater  cliffs  and  the  Needles 
from  Bournemouth,  and  said,  “ The  Isle  of  Wight 
looked  like  a water-lily  on  a blue  lake.”  Talking  of 
some  poems  published  by  an  advanced  young  lady, 
which  were  instantly  suppressed  and  the  edition  bought 
up  by  her  friends,  he  quoted  two  or  three  passages  to 
show  how  she  had  poetic  perception  rendered  worthless 
by  bad  taste.  One  line  ran : “ whose  looks  were  well- 
manured  with  love2.” 

January  22nd.  My  father  said  on  the  evening 
when  the  Bradleys  were  leaving:  “You  are  going  away 
— -it  is  taking  away  a bit  of  my  sunshine:  I’ve  been 
cutting  down  trees  to  let  in  some,  and  now  you  are 
taking  away  a bit  of  it.”  He  continued : “ All  that 
sounds  like  flattery:  there  is  no  need  for  us  to  make 
fine  speeches.  By  this  time  you  know  I never  do,  and 
it  is  just  a plain  truth  that  your  going  takes  away  some 
of  my  sunshine.” 

On  Feb.  17th  my  father  told  my  mother  about  his 
plan  for  a new  poem,  “ The  Northern  Farmer.” 

By  the  evening  of  Feb.  18th  he  had  already  written 
down  a great  part  of  “ The  Northern  Farmer”  in  one  of 
the  MS  books  bound  in  blue  and  red  paper  (which  my 
mother  always  made  for  him  herself).  They  also  read  of 
Sir  Gareth  in  the  Morte  d\ Arthur.  About  this  time  we 
went  with  my  father  to  the  National  Gallery  to  see  what 
he  called  “some  of  the  great  pictures  of  the  world,”  the 

1 The  late  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  his  wife. 

2 I may  observe  that  my  father  was  by  no  means  a severe  critic  of  the 
poems  sent  him.  I remember  his  saying  to  Millais  (about  1879)  : — “The 
average  poems  which  I get  are  not  at  all  bad,  but  there  is  just  the  something, 
I suppose,  wanted,  that  I cannot  explain.”  Millais  assured  him  that  he  found 
the  same  difficulty  in  criticizing  pictures  by  young  painters,  that  there  was  a 
good  level  of  performance  throughout  their  work,  yet  somehow  falling  short 
of  excellence. 


472  TOUR  IN  THE  PYRENEES.  [l861 

“Titians,”  the  new  “Veronese1,”  and  the  portrait  of 
Ariosto. 

In  March  my  mother  received  a letter  from  Mr 
Jowett,  a passage  in  which  refers  to  some  advice  my 
father  had  given  him  with  regard  to  the  manner  of 
expressing  his  theological  opinions. 

Balliol. 

I had  not  the  courage  to  follow  Mr  Tennyson’s  advice 
about  the  Essay 2.  It  was,  however,  of  great  use  to  me,  for  I 
have  modified  the  objectionable  passages.  I will  send  you  a 
copy  in  a few  days. 

Believe  me  ever  most  truly  yours, 

B.  Jowett. 

In  May  it  was  decided  that  my  father  should  receive 
a degree  at  Cambridge,  but  we  were  unable  to  go  fur- 
ther than  Oatlands  Park  Hotel,  for  he  had  such  a bad 
attack  of  palpitation  of  the  heart  that  Cambridge  had 
to  be  given  up.  After  a few  days  spent  in  walking 
to  Hampton  Court  and  about  the  country  round,  we  re- 
turned to  Farringford,  my  father  stopping  at  Winchester 
and  Lyndhurst  on  the  way. 

Auvergne  and  the  Pyrenees  ( July  and  August ). 

In  the  summer  of  1861  we  travelled  in  Auvergne  and 
the  Pyrenees.  Some  things  we  could  not  but  be  glad  to 
have  seen,  but  the  difficulty  of  getting  rooms,  carriages, 
or  even  donkeys  to  ride  in  those  days,  and  the  impossi- 
bility of  finding  food  not  soaked  in  garlic,  took  away 
much  of  our  pleasure. 

The  Cathedral  at  Bourges,  its  great  pillars  and  its 
gorgeous  windows,  was  what  struck  my  father  most  on 
the  journey  out.  On  our  arrival  at  Clermont,  the  comet 

1 The  great  picture,  “ Darius  and  his  family  before  Alexander,1’  brought 
from  the  Pisani  Palace,  Venice,  in  1857. 

2 The  famous  essay  in  Essays  and  Reviews . 


THE  PYRENEES. 


473 


186l] 

was  flaring  over  the  market-place.  Here  we  should  have 
been  content  to  stay,  had  it  not  been  for  the  bad  drainage. 

My  father  and  Mr  Dakyns  1 climbed  the  Puy  de  Dome 
and  several  of  the  extinct  volcanoes  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Afterwards  we  drove  to  Mont  Dore  and  La 
Bourboule  ; the  plain  of  Clermont,  where  Peterthe  Hermit 
preached  the  First  Crusade,  and  over  which  we  looked 
during  the  drive,  is  very  fine.  At  Mont  Dore,  while  my 
father  was  reading  some  of  the  Iliad  out  aloud  to  us, 
little  boys  came  and  stood  outside  the  window  in  open- 
mouthed  astonishment.  He  took  long  walks  there  by  the 
Dordogne,  and  one  day  when  he  came  in  from  his  walk  we 
heard  him  call  “ Clough,  come  upstairs,”  and  in  walked 
Mr  Clough.  My  father,  Mr  Clough  and  Mr  Dakyns 
made  many  expeditions  to  waterfalls  and  up  mountains, 
Mr  Clough  riding.  W e were  delighted  with  the  gorgeous 
meadows  of  forget-me-nots,  and  yellow  anemones.  We 
left  Mr  Clough  at  Mont  Dore  and  drove  to  Tulle  and 
Perigueux,  a quaint  place  with  its  old  Roman  Tower 
and  Cathedral  with  grass-grown  tower,  church  of  St 
Etienne,  and  city  walls.  Thence  to  Bordeaux,  Tarbes, 
Bagneres  de  Bigorre  where  there  was  a magnificent 
thunderstorm  at  night,  forked  lightning  of  different 
colours  striking  the  mountains  on  either  hand.  From 
this  place  my  father  and  Mr  Dakyns  made  an  expedition 
up  the  Pic  du  Midi.  When  the  climbers  reached  the 
summit,  three  great  eagles,  they  said,  kept  swooping 
round  without  any  perceptible  movement  of  wing.  On 
our  drive  from  Bigorre  to  Bagneres  de  Luchon,  a brigand 
cut  one  of  our  trunks  from  behind  the  carriage  and  wTas 
making  off  with  it,  when  our  driver  looked  round  and 
caught  sight  of  him,  whereat  the  rascal  ran  off  into  the 
mountains,  our  driver  cracking  his  whip  at  him  and 
shouting  out  volleys  of  break-jaw  oaths.  At  Bagneres 

1 Mr  Dakyns  had  recently  come  to  be  our  tutor ; previously  my  mother 
had  taught  my  brother  and  myself. 


474  “ALL  ALONG  THE  VALLEY.”  [l861 

dc  Luchon  we  lodged  in  a house  among  the  maize  fields, 
and  one  night  there  was  in  the  town  a grand  puppet 
show,  a sham  fight  between  the  French  and  the  Chinese, 
illustrating  some  of  the  incidents  in  the  Chinese  war  of 
i860.  The  English  were  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 
My  father  walked  with  Mr  Dakyns  to  the  Port  de 
Venasque  and  into  Spain,  and  to  see  the  Cascade  d’Enfer 
and  other  cascades,  and  the  Lac  D’Oo,  and  the  Lac  Vert, 
and  up  several  mountains : or  sometimes  he  would  ride 
on  a white  pony  about  the  mountain  valleys,  one  of  these 
being  the  Vallee  de  Lys,  which  he  much  admired.  Mr 
Clough  joined  us  again  at  Luchon.  He  and  my  father 
went  together  to  the  Cascade  des  Demoiselles.  He  was 
with  us  too  at  Luz.  My  father  was  enchanted  with  the 
torrent  of  the  Gave  de  Pau,  he  “ sat  by  it  and  watched 
it,  and  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  the  spirit  of  delight.” 
Mr  Dakyns  and  he  climbed  toward  the  Breche  de  Roland, 
Mr  Clough  meeting  them  on  their  return  in  the  Cirque 
de  Gavarnie,  where  my  father  said  that  the  phrase  “ slow 
dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn”  was  taken  from  the  central 
cataract  which  pours  over  the  cliff.  He  observed  that 
Gavarnie  did  not  impress  him  quite  so  much  this  time 
as  when  he  was  here  before.  It  seemed  to  him  “ different, 
but  still  the  finest  thing  in  the  Pyrenees.”  Mr  Clough 
noticed  how  silent  my  father  was,  and  how  absorbed  by 
the  beauty  of  the  mountains.  On  August  6th,  my  father’s 
birthday,  we  arrived  at  Cauteretz,  — his  favourite  valley  in 
the  Pyrenees.  Before  our  windows  we  had  the  torrent 
rushing  over  its  rocky  bed  from  far  away  among  the 
mountains  and  falling  in  cataracts.  Patches  of  snow 
lay  on  the  peaks  above,  and  nearer  were  great  wooded 
heights  glorious  with  autumnal  colours,  bare  rocks  here 
and  there,  and  greenest  mountain  meadows  below.  He 
wrote  his  lyric  “All  along  the  Valley1”  “after  hear- 

1 Extract  from  Clough’s  Journal : “Sept.  1st.  The  Tennysons  arrived 
here  at  6.30  yesterday.  Tennyson  was  here  with  Arthur  Hallam  thirty-one 


186l]  THE  “STATELY  PINE  ” IN  “THE  PRINCESS.”  475 

ing  the  voice  of  the  torrent  seemingly  sound  deeper  as 
the  night  grew  ” (in  memory  of  his  visit  here  with 
Arthur  Hallam). 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 
The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a living  voice  to  me. 

My  father,  Mr  Clough  and  Mr  Dakyns  climbed  to 
the  Lac  de  Gaube,  a blue,  still  lake  among  hr  woods, 
where  my  father  quoted  to  Mr  Clough  the  simile  of  the 
“ stately  pine  ” in  “ The  Princess,”  which  he  made  from 
a pine  here  on  an  island  in  mid-stream  between  two 
cataracts.  More  pines  he  found  had  grown  by  the  side 
of  this  solitary  pine  that  he  remembered  years  ago. 

And  standing  like  a stately  Pine 
Set  in  a cataract  on  an  island-crag, 

When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right  and  left 
Suck’d  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash’d  to  the  vale:  and  yet  her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

My  father  clambered  on  to  the  Lac  Bleu ; he  said 
that  the  water  was  marvellously  blue  except  where  the 
shadow  of  the  mountains  made  parts  of  the  lake  purple. 
My  mother  writes  in  her  journal : 

“ We  had  a sad  parting  from  Mr  Clough  at  Pau. 
There  could  not  have  been  a gentler,  kinder,  more 
unselfish  or  more  thoughtful  companion  than  he  has 
been.  Among  other  kind  things  he  corrected  the  boys’ 
little  journals  for  them ; we  called  him  the  ‘ child-angel.’ 

years  ago ; and  really  finds  great  pleasure  in  the  place : they  stayed  here 
and  at  Cauteretz.  He  is  very  fond  of  this  place  evidently.” 

“ Clough,”  said  my  father,  “ had  great  poetic  feeling : he  read  me  then  his 
i In  Mari  Magno  1 and  cried  like  a child  over  it.” 

My  father  was  vexed  that  he  had  written  “ two  and  thirty  years  ago  ” in 
his  “All  along  the  Valley”  instead  of  “one  and  thirty  years  ago,”  and  as  late 
as  1892  wished  to  alter  it  since  he  hated  inaccuracy.  I persuaded  him  to 
let  his  first  reading  stand,  for  the  public  had  learnt  to  love  the  poem  in  its 
present  form:  and  besides  “two  and  thirty”  was  more  melodious. 


476  LETTER  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL.  [l8Gl 

After  stopping  at  Pau  for  a few  days  we  journeyed  home 
by  Dax,  St  Emilion,  Libourne,  Tours  and  Amiens  : and 
on  our  return  A.  said  to  me : ‘ I have  seen  many  things 
in  this  tour  I shall  like  to  remember.’” 

My  father  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll  on  his  return : 

The  Temple,  London,  1861. 

My  dear  Duke, 

I had  intended  to  write  yesterday  so  that  my 
answer  might  have  reached  Cliveden  on  the  ioth,  and  I 
scarce  know  why  I did  not:  perhaps  because  in  these 
chambers  I had  lighted  on  an  old  and  not  unclever  novel 
Zohrab  the  Hostage  ; partly  perhaps  because  I had  fallen 
into  a muse  about  human  vanities  and  “the  glories  of 
our  blood  and  state  ” (do  you  know  those  grand  old  lines 
of  Shirley’s  ?).  This  must  have  been  suggested  by  the 
progress  of  His  Majesty  the  Mayor  down  the  Strand, 
where  I was  entangled  for  half  an  hour  in  a roaring 
crowd  and  hardly  escaped  unbruised; — however,  what 
with  the  novel  and  what  with  the  musing  fit,  I let  the 
post  slip ; but  this  morning  let  me  say  that  I am  grateful 
for  the  enquiring  after  myself  and  mine:  of  myself 
indeed  I have  no  good  account  to  render,  being  very  far 
from  well,  living  at  a friend’s  rooms  here  in  the  Temple, 
and  dancing  attendance  on  a doctor.  France,  I believe 
overset  me,  and  more  especially  the  foul  ways  and 
unhappy  diet  of  that  charming  Auvergne : no  amount  of 
granite  craters  or  chestnut-woods,  or  lava-streams,  not 
the  Puy  de  Dome  which  I climbed,  nor  the  Glen  of 
Royat,  where  I lived,  nor  the  plain  of  Clermont  seen 
from  the  bridge  there,  nor  the  still  more  magnificent  view 
of  the  dead  volcanoes  from  the  ascent  to  Mont  Dore  could 
make  amends  for  those  drawbacks  : so  we  all  fell  sick  by 
turns  : my  wife  is  better  since  our  return,  and  the  boys 
are  well  enough,  tho’  they  suffered  too  at  the  time ; but 
I remain  with  a torpid  liver,  not  having  much  pleasure 


1861  ] FEARS  FOR  FRESHWATER.  477 

in  anything : yet  I can  still  grieve  with  my  friends’  griefs, 
and  therefore  I am  sorry  for  the  occasion  which  exiles 
your  good  and  kind  Duchess,  tho’  it  be  but  for  this 
December.  I am  sure  the  Duchess  will  sympathise  with 
my  disgust  at  having  my  Freshwater  (where  I had 
pitched  my  tent,  taken  with  its  solitariness)  so  polluted 
and  defiled  with  brick  and  mortar,  as  is  threatened ; they 
talk  of  laying  out  streets  and  crescents,  and  I oscillate 
between  my  desire  of  purchasing  land  at  a ruinous  price 
in  order  to  keep  my  views  open,  and  my  wish  to  fly  the 
place  altogether.  Is  there  no  millionaire  who  will  take 
pity  on  the  wholesome  hillside  and  buy  it  all  up  ? 

“ Boadicea,”  no,  I cannot  publish  her  yet,  perhaps 
never,  for  who  can  read  her  except  myself  ? I have  half 
consented  to  write  a little  ode  on  the  opening  of  the 
International  Exhibition.  The  commissioners  prest  me  : 
I should  never  have  volunteered  ; for  I hate  a subject 
given  me,  and  still  more  if  that  subject  be  a public  one. 
Present  my  best  remembrances  to  your  Duchess  and  to 
[her  mother]  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland.  I am  half 
afraid  to  inquire  after  her  Grace’s  eyesight  lest  I should 
hear  ill  news. 

Yours,  my  dear  Duke,  always, 

A.  Tennyson. 

In  September  Lord  Dufferin  wrote : 

Clandeboy,  Belfast,  Sept.  24 thy  1861. 

My  dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

I wonder  if  you  will  think  me  very  presumptuous 
for  doing  what  at  last,  after  many  months’  hesitation,  I have 
determined  to  do. 

You  must  know  that  here  in  my  park  in  Ireland  there  rises 
a high  hill,  from  the  top  of  which  I look  down  not  only  on  an 
extensive  tract  of  Irish  land,  but  also  on  St  George’s  Channel, 
a long  blue  line  of  Scotch  coast,  and  the  mountains  of  the  Isle 
of  Man. 


478  “ Helen’s  tower.”  [i86i 

On  the  summit  of  this  hill  I have  built  an  old-world  tower 
which  I have  called  after  my  mother  “ Helen’s  Tower.” 

In  it  I have  placed  on  a golden  tablet  the  birthday  verses 
which  my  mother  wrote  to  me  on  the  day  I came  of  age,  and 
I have  spared  no  pains  in  beautifying  it  with  all  imaginable 
devices.  In  fact  my  tower  is  a little  “ Palace  of  Art.”  Beneath 
is  a rough  outline  of  its  form  and  situation. 

Now  there  is  only  one  thing  wanting  to  make  it  a perfect 
little  gem  of  architecture  and  decoration  and  that  is  “a  voice” 
It  is  now  ten  years  since  it  was  built  and  all  that  time  it  has 
stood  silent.  Yet  if  he  chose  there  is  one  person  in  the  world 
able  to  endow  it  with  this  priceless  gift,  and  by  sending  me  some 
little  short  distich  for  it  to  crown  it  for  ever  with  a glory  it  cannot 
otherwise  obtain,  and  render  it  a memorial  of  the  personal  friend- 
ship which  its  builder  felt  for  the  great  poet  of  our  age. 

Yours  ever,  Dufferin. 

In  answer  my  father  sent  the  following  lines,  and 
annotated,  as  below,  the  words  “recurring  Paradise”: 

Helen  ys  T ower. 

Helen’s  Tower,  here  I stand, 

Dominant  over  sea  and  land. 

Son’s  love  built  me  and  I hold 
Mother’s  love  engrav’n  in  gold. 

Love  is  in  and  out  of  time, 

I am  mortal  stone  and  lime. 

Would  my  granite  girth  were  strong 
As  either  love  to  last  as  long! 

I should  wear  my  crown  entire 
To  and  thro’  the  Doomsday  fire, 

And  be  found  of  angel  eyes 
In  earth’s  recurring  Paradise1. 

1 The  fancy  of  some  poets  and  theologians  that  Paradise  is  to  be  the 
renovated  earth,  as,  I dare  say,  you  know. 

The  death  of  the  Prince  Consort  in  December  my 


186l] 


DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  CONSORT. 


479 


father  felt  was  a great  loss  to  Britain  and  the  Empire. 
He  sent  the  first  copies  of  his  Dedication  of  the 
“Idylls”  to  the  Princess  Alice  with  the  following 
letter: 

Madam, 

Having  heard  some  time  ago  from  Sir  C.  B. 
Phipps  that  your  Royal  Highness  had  expressed  a 
strong  desire  that  I should  in  some  way  “ idealize  ” our 
lamented  Prince,  and  being  at  that  time  very  unwell,  I 
was  unwilling  to  attempt  the  subject,  because  I feared 
that  I might  scarce  be  able  to  do  it  justice ; nor  did  I 
well  see  how  I should  idealize  a life  which  was  in  itself 
an  ideal. 

At  last  it  seemed  to  me  that  I could  do  no  better 
than  dedicate  to  his  memory  a book  which  he  himself 
had  told  me  was  valued  by  him.  I am  the  more  em- 
boldened to  send  these  lines  to  your  Royal  Highness, 
because  having  asked  the  opinion  of  a lady  who  knew 
and  truly  loved  and  honoured  him,  she  gave  me  to 
understand  by  her  reply  that  they  were  true  and  worthy 
of  him : whether  they  be  so  or  not,  I hardly  know,  but 
if  they  do  not  appear  so  to  your  Royal  Highness,  forgive 
me  as  your  Father  would  have  forgiven  me. 

Though  these  lines  conclude  with  an  address  to  our 
beloved  Queen  I feel  that  I cannot  do  better  than  leave 
the  occasion  of  presenting  them  to  the  discretion  of  your 
Royal  Highness. 

Believe  me,  as  altogether  sympathizing  with  your 
sorrow, 

Your  Royal  Highness’ 

faithful  and  obedient  servant, 


A.  Tennyson. 


480 


LETTER  FROM  PRINCESS  ALICE. 


[1862 


1862. 

Jan.  9 tk.  My  father  recited  in  a rolling  voice  his 
new  Ode  for  the  opening  of  the  Exhibition  in  the 
summer1.  He  explained  that  the  rhythm  and  composi- 
tion were  hampered  by  the  necessity  of  arranging  it  for 
a choir  of  4000  voices : “ I think  for  that  kind  of  Ode 
the  wild  irregular  bursts  are  an  addition  to  its  effective- 
ness.” The  lines  on  the  death  of  the  Prince  Consort 
had  to  be  put  in  after  the  first  draft  was  written.  My 
father  was  deeply  grieved,  not  only  by  the  death  of  the 
Prince,  but  also  by  the  deaths  of  his  two  friends  Clough 
and  Godley.  He  wrote:  “We  have  lost  Clough:  he 
died  at  Florence  of  a relapse  of  malaria-fever:  it  gave 
me  a great  shock.  I see  that  Godley  too  has  gone : so 
we  fall,  one  by  one.” 

Jan.  igt/i.  Princess  Alice  wrote  to  my  father  about 
the  Dedication  of  the  “ Idylls  ” to  the  Prince  Consort : 

If  words  could  express  thanks  and  real  appreciation  of  lines 
so  beautiful,  so  truly  worthy  of  the  great  pure  spirit  which  in- 
spired the  author,  Princess  Alice  would  attempt  to  do  it;  — but 
these  failing,  she  begs  Mr  Tennyson  to  believe  how  much  she 
admires  them,  and  that  this  just  tribute  to  the  memory  of  her 
beloved  Father  touched  her  deeply.  Mr  Tennyson  could  not 
have  chosen  a more  beautiful  or  true  testimonial  to  the  memory 
of  him  who  was  so  really  good  and  noble,  than  the  dedication 
of  the  ‘Idylls  of  the  King’  which  he  so  valued  and  admired. 
Princess  Alice  transmitted  the  lines  to  the  Queen,  who  desired 
her  to  tell  Mr  Tennyson,  with,  her  sincerest  thanks,  how  much 
moved  she  was  on  reading  them,  and  that  they  had  soothed  her 
aching,  bleeding  heart.  She  knows  also  how  he  would  have 
admired  them. 

1 Sung  May  I,  1862 ; set  by  Sterndale  Bennett.  One  newspaper  re- 
ported that  the  poet-laureate  was  present,  “ clothed  in  his  green  baize  ” 
(probably  a misprint  for  u bays  ”) . 


1862]  LETTER  FROM  THE  CROWN  PRINCESS  OF  PRUSSIA.  48 1 

The  Crown  Princess  of  Prussia  also  wrote : 

February  2 3rd,  1862. 

The  first  time  I ever  heard  the  “ Idylls  of  the  King  ” was  last 
year,  when  I found  both  the  Queen  and  Prince  quite  in  rapt- 
ures about  them.  The  first  bit  I ever  heard  was  the  end  of 
“ Guinevere,”  the  last  two  or  three  pages  : the  Prince  read  them 
to  me,  and  I shall  never  forget  the  impression  it  made  upon  me 
hearing  those  grand  and  simple  words  in  his  voice ! He  did 
so  admire  them,  and  I cannot  separate  the  idea  of  King  Arthur 
from  the  image  of  him  whom  I most  revered  on  earth  ! 

I almost  know  the  “ Idylls  of  the  King  ” by  heart  now  : they 
are  really  sublime ! 

Surely  it  must  give  the  Author  satisfaction  to  think  that  his 
words  have  been  drops  of  balm  on  the  broken  and  loving  hearts 
of  the  widowed  Queen  and  her  orphan  children. 

Victoria, 

Crown  Princess  of  Prussia,  Princess  Royal. 

Even  the  “calm  Spedding”  wrote  enthusiastically 
about  the  “ Dedication  ” : 

The  thing  I had  to  say  was  merely  that  the  Dedication 
was,  and  continues  to  be,  the  most  beautiful  and  touching  thing 
of  the  kind  that  I ever  read,  to  which  I have  nothing  to  add 
except  that  I find  that  to  be  the  general  opinion  of  men  and 
women  within  my  small  circle  of  acquaintance.  Not  that  I have 
heard  it  much  talked  of.  But  I think  that  is  because  people  are 
afraid  of  not  meeting  with  the  sympathy  they  require  in  such  a 
case.  With  some  of  my  most  intimate  friends,  whom  I was 
frequently  meeting,  not  a word  passed  about  it  for  weeks,  till  at 
last  some  accident  brought  it  shyly  out,  and  we  found  we  had 
been  all  the  time  thinking  exactly  alike. 

Hitherto  I have  enjoyed  the  quiet  dignity  belonging  to  the 
editor  of  a book  of  good  repute  which  everybody  is  willing  to  be 
thought  familiar  with,  but  nobody  reads,  so  the  critics  have  taken 
their  information  from  the  preface,  and  passed  me  to  the  respect- 
able shelf  with  compliments.  But  now  I come  on  ground  [the 
Life  of  Francis  Bacon ] where  they  have  opinions  of  their  own, 
and  must  be  prepared  for  the  rougher  side  of  the  critic  tongue. 


t.  1. 


31 


482 


LETTERS. 


[l862 

Of  all  creatures  that  feed  upon  the  earth,  the  professional  critic 
is  the  one  whose  judgment  I least  value  for  any  purpose  except 
advertisement,  but  of  all  writers,  the  one  whom  he  sits  in  judg- 
ment on  is  also  the  one  whom  he  is  least  qualified  to  assume  a 
superiority  over.  For  is  it  likely  that  a man,  who  has  written 
a serious  book  about  anything  in  the  world,  should  not  know 
more  about  that  thing  than  one  who  merely  reads  his  book  for 
the  purpose  of  reviewing  it  ? But  so  it  must  be  : and  a discreet 
man  must  just  let  it  be.  What  I want  to  know  is  whether  men 
and  women  and  children  who  care  nothing  about  me,  but  take  an 
intelligent  interest  in  the  subject,  find  the  book  readable.  What 
its  other  merits  are  nobody  knows  so  well  as  [I], 


Letters  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll \ 

Farringford,  Feb . 1862. 

My  dear  Duke, 

Many  thanks  for  your  very  interesting  letter. 
Very  touching  is  what  you  tell  me  about  the  Queen.  I 
am  of  course  exceedingly  gratified  that  anything  which  I 
have  written  should  have  the  power  to  console  one  whom 
we  all  love ; strange  that  a book 1 which,  when  it  first 
appeared,  was  pronounced  by  more  than  one  clergyman 
as  Pantheistic,  if  not,  as  (I  think)  one  wiseacre  com- 
mented on  it,  Atheistic,  should  have  such  a power,  but 
after  all  it  is  very  little  that  words  can  do.  Time,  time ! 

I have  written  out  for  the  Princess  Royal  a morsel 
from  “ Guinevere.”  I do  so  hate  rewriting  my  own 
things  that  my  pen  refuses  to  trace  the  “ Dedication.” 

Her  critique  on  the  “ Idylls  ” is  enthusiastic,  and 
mingled  up  with  the  affection  of  her  father,  as  I would 
wish  it  to  be.  As  to  joining  these  with  the  “ Morte 
d’Arthur,”  there  are  two  objections,  — one  that  I could 
scarcely  light  upon  a finer  close  than  that  ghostlike 
passing  away  of  the  king,  and  the  other  that  the  “ Morte  ’ 


1 “ In  Memoriam.” 


1862]  AT  WORK  ON  “ THE  FISHERMAN.”  483 

is  older  in  style 1.  I have  thought  about  it  and  arranged 
all  the  intervening  Idylls,  but  I dare  not  set  to  work 
for  fear  of  a failure,  and  time  lost.  I am  now  about  my 
“ Fisherman,”  which  is  heroic  too  in  its  way. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 

If  you  call  me  Mr  Tennyson  any  longer,  I think  that 
I must  Your-grace  you  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Monday,  March  3rd,  1862. 

My  dear  Duke, 

I have  been  out  on  a visit  (a  very  unusual 
proceeding  on  my  part),  and  on  returning  found  your 
letter,  which  a little  dismayed  me,  for,  as  you  in  the  prior 
one  had  bound  me  by  no  promise  of  secrecy,  I,  in  talking 
of  Her  Majesty  and  her  sorrow,  did  say  to  two  friends, 
whom  I bound  by  such  a promise,  that  she  had  found 
comfort  in  reading  “ In  Memoriam,”  and  had  made  the 
private  markings  therein. 

I don’t  suppose  much  harm  would  result  even  if  these 
broke  their  promise,  for  that  is  all  that  could  be  reported  ; 
still  I am  vexed,  because  if  the  Queen  heard  of  the 
report  she  might  fancy  that  her  private  comments  were 
public  prey.  As  to  those  very  interesting  ones  communi- 
cated in  your  last,  whether  you  had  bound  me  to  secrecy 
or  not,  I should  not  have  dreamt  of  repeating  them:  they 
are  far  too  sacred ; and  possibly  your  caution  of  silence 
only  refers  to  these. 

I hope  so.  I think  it  must  be  so.  I wrote  off  the 
very  day  I returned  to  both  my  friends,  urging  them  to 
abide  by  their  promise,  for  in  these  days  of  half- 
unconscious social  treachery  and  multitudinous  babble 
I felt  that  I ought  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure.  You 
can  scarce  tell  how  annoyed  I have  been.  I hope  the 

1 u i The  Coming  and  the  Passing  of  Arthur 1 are  simpler  and  more  severe 
in  style,  as  dealing  with  the  awfulness  of  Birth  and  Death.”  A.  T. 


484 


LETTERS. 


[l862 

Princess  Royal  got  my  note  and  inclosure,  but  she  has 
not  acknowledged  it.  My  letters,  I believe,  have  ere 
this  been  opened  and  stopt  at  our  little  Yarmouth  P.  O. 
but  not  in  the  present  Postmaster’s  time. 

My  best  remembrances  to  the  Duchess. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 

March  2 6th,  1862. 

My  dear  Duke, 

I am  a shy  beast  and  like  to  keep  in  my 
burrow.  Two  questions,  what  sort  of  salutation  to  make 
on  entering  Her1  private  room?  and  whether  to  retreat 
backward  ? or  sidle  out  as  I may  ? 

I am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  were  the  worse  for  your 
journey.  I myself  am  raven-hoarse  with  cold. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 

April,  1862. 

My  dear  Duke, 

As  you  were  kind  enough  to  say  that  you 
would  mention  Woolner’s  name  to  the  Queen,  I send  a 
photograph  of  a work  of  his,  which  Gladstone,  who  saw 
it  the  other  day,  pronounced  the  first  thing  he  had  seen 
after  the  antique.  The  children  are  Thomas  Fairbairn’s, 
deaf  and  dumb,  not  pretty  certainly,  but  infinitely 
pathetic. 

I do  not  say,  show  this  to  her  Majesty,  you  know 
best,  but  admit  that  myself  and  Gladstone  are  justified 
in  our  admiration. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 


1 The  Queen’s. 


1862] 


THE  QUEEN. 


4^5 


My  fathers  first  visit  to  the  Queen , April \ 1862  \ 
after  the  death  of  the  Prince  Consort. 

A.  was  much  affected  by  his  interview  with  the 
Queen.  He  said  that  she  stood  pale  and  statue-like 
before  him,  speaking  in  a quiet,  unutterably  sad  voice. 
“ There  was  a kind  of  stately  innocence  about  her.”  She 
said  many  kind  things  to  him,  such  as  “ Next  to  the 
Bible  ‘ In  Memoriam  ’ is  my  comfort.”  She  talked  of 
the  Prince,  and  of  Hallam,  and  of  Macaulay,  and  of 
Goethe,  and  of  Schiller  in  connection  with  him,  and  said 
that  the  Prince  was  so  like  the  picture  of  Arthur  Hallam 
in  “ In  Memoriam,”  even  to  his  blue  eyes.  When  A. 
said  that  he  thought  that  the  Prince  would  have  made  a 
great  king,  she  answered,  “ He  always  said  that  it  did 
not  signify  whether  he  did  the  right  thing  or  did  not,  so 
long  as  the  right  thing  was  done.” 

A.  said,  “We  all  grieve  with  your  Majesty,”  and  the 
Queen  replied,  “ The  country  has  been  kind  to  me,  and 
I am  thankful.” 

When  the  Queen  had  withdrawn,  Princess  Alice 
came  in  with  Princess  Beatrice. 

After  the  interview  my  father  wrote  to  Lady  Augusta 
Bruce2: 


Farringford,  April  17th,  1862. 

My  dear  Lady  Augusta, 

Accept  my  very  best  thanks  for  your  kind 
letter.  I perceive  that  it  was  written  on  the  evening  of 
that  day  when  I called  at  Osborne,  but  I received  it 
only  yesterday ; then  I thought  that  I would  wait  till 

1 This  account  was  written  down  by  my  mother  immediately  after  my 
father’s  return  from  Osborne. 

2 Afterwards  the  wife  of  Dean  Stanley,  then  Lady-in-Waiting  to  the 
Queen. 


LETTERS. 


486 


[l862 


the  prints 1 arrived,  but  as  they  have  not,  I will  not  delay 
my  answer. 

I was  conscious  of  having  spoken  with  considerable 
emotion  to  the  Queen,  but  I have  a very  imperfect 
recollection  of  what  I did  say.  Nor  indeed  — which 
perhaps  you  may  think  less  excusable  — do  I very  well 
recollect  what  Her  Majesty  said  to  me:  but  I loved  the 
voice  that  spoke,  for  being  very  blind  I am  much  led  by 
the  voice,  and  blind  as  I am  and  as  I told  Her  I was,  I 
yet  could  dimly  perceive  so  great  an  expression  of  sweet- 
ness in  Her  countenance  as  made  me  wroth  with  those 
imperfect  cartes  de  visite  of  H.M.  which  Mayall  once 
sent  me.  Will  you  say,  as  you  best  know  how  to  say  it, 
how  deeply  grateful  I am  to  Her  Majesty  for  the  prints 
of  Herself  and  of  Him  which  She  proposes  to  send  me, 
and  how  very  much  I shall  value  Her  Gift?  I was 
charmed  with  Princess  Alice.  She  seemed  to  me  what 
Goethe  calls  eine  Natur . Did  he  not  say  that  was  the 
highest  compliment  that  could  be  paid  to  a woman  ? and 
the  little  Beatrice  with  her  long  tresses  was  very  captivat- 
ing. Thank  you  also  for  what  you  tell  me  of  your  own 
family.  True,  as  you  write,  I often  receive  similar  com- 
munications, but  the  value  of  these  depends  on  the  value 
of  those  from  whom  they  come.  I often  scarce  believe 
that  I have  done  anything,  especially  when  I meet  with 
too  flowery  compliments : but  when  I know  that  I am 
spoken  to  sincerely,  as  by  your  Ladyship,  I lift  my  head 
a little,  and  rejoice  that  I am  not  altogether  useless. 

Believe  me,  yours  very  truly, 

A.  Tennyson. 


1 Portraits  of  the  Queen  and  Prince  Consort. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


DERBYSHIRE  AND  YORKSHIRE. 

LETTERS. 

1862-1864 \ 

During  this  summer,  after  finishing  his  “ Enoch 
Arden  2,”  or  “ The  Fisherman  ” as  he  called  it  then, 
my  father  went  with  Palgrave  for  a tour  to  Derbyshire 
and  Yorkshire.  On  his  return  I remember  hearing 
him  express  delight  at  the  beauties  of  Haddon  Hall, 
and  at  the  glories  of  the  Peak  cavern.  The  guide 
had  asked  the  travellers,  before  entering  the  cavern, 
at  what  scale  they  would  wish  to  see  the  Great 
Hall  illuminated,  for  when  the  Emperor  of  Russia  had 
been  there,  he  had  chosen  the  most  magnificent  of  the 
illuminations  offered.  My  father  answered  : “ Let  us  be 
as  grand  as  Emperors  for  once  ” : and  Palgrave  and  he 
were  amply  rewarded  by  the  wonderful  colour-effects 
produced,  and  especially  by  the  display  of  the  crimson 
fire.  From  Castleton  they  went  to  Ripon,  Leyburn, 
Middleham,  Wensleydale,  Bolton,  and  Skipton.  My 
father  told  me  that  it  was  at  Middleham  Castle  he  had 
made  the  lines  in  “ Geraint  and  Enid 

And  here  had  fall’n  a great  part  of  a tower, 
Whole,  like  a crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a crag  was  gay  with  wilding  flowers. 

1 See  Appendix,  p.  51 1,  for  Reminiscences  6y  Thomas  Wilson  and 
William  Allingham,  1863-64. 

2 See  Fitzgerald’s  “ Hints  for  ‘ Enoch  Arden  ’ ” in  Appendix,  p.  515. 

487 


488  FALSE  REPORT  OF  A BARONETCY.  [l862- 

At  Christmas  a greeting  from  Edward  Fitzgerald 
came : 


Market  Rise,  Woodbridge, 
1862. 

Let  me  hear  how  you  both  are  and  your  boys,  and  where  you 
have  been  this  summer. 

I have  as  usual,  nothing  to  tell  of  myself : boating  all  the 
summer  and  reading  Clarissa  Harlowe  since ; you  and  I used 
to  talk  of  the  book  more  than  20  years  ago.  I believe  I am 
better  read  in  it  than  almost  any  one  in  existence  now.  No 
wonder,  for  it  is  almost  intolerably  tedious  and  absurd.  But 
I can’t  read  the  Adam  Bedes , Daisy  Chains , etc.  at  all : I look  at 
my  row  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  think  with  comfort  that  I 
can  always  go  to  him  of  a winter  evening,  when  no  other  book 
comes  to  hand. 

I think  you  must  come  over  here  one  summer-day,  not 
till  summer,  but  before  more  summers  are  gone.  Else,  who 
knows  ? Do  you  smoke  ? I sometimes  talk  with  seafaring  men 
who  come  from  Boston  in  billyboys,  and  from  Goole,  and  other 
places  in  the  Humber,  and  then  I don’t  forget  the  coast  of 
Locksley  Hall. 


1863. 

In  January  my  father  wrote  to  Frederick  Locker, 
sending  at  the  same  time  a volume  of  his  poems  for 
his  daughter  Eleanor: 

Farringford, 

Jan.  31  st,  1863. 

Dear  Mr  Locker, 

I am  glad  that  your  young  lady  approves  of 
my  little  book.  Why  wouldn’t  you  let  me  give  it  to  her  ? 

As  to  this  canard  of  a Baronetcy,  I remember  the 
same  foolish  rumour  arising  some  years  ago,  and  with 
some  little  trouble  I put  it  down,  or  it  died  down  of 
itself.  In  this  instance  the  notice  had  been  out  in  the 
Athenczum  several  days  before  I heard  of  it,  but  I 


LETTERS. 


489 


1863] 

answered  the  first  letter  which  alluded  to  it,  by  declaring 
that  the  rumour  was  wholly  unfounded ; so  that,  as  no 
Baronetcy  has  been  offered,  there  is  less  reason  for  con- 
sidering your  friendly  pros  and  cons  as  to  acceptance  or 
refusal ; if  it  had,  I trust  that  I should  have  had  grace 
and  loyalty  enough  to  think  more  of  the  Queen’s  feelings 
than  my  own  in  this  matter.  I mean  whichever  way  I 
answered.  Both  myself  and  my  wife  have  been  some- 
what vexed,  and  annoyed,  by  all  this  chatter. 

Kind  regards  to  Lady  Charlotte.  I shall  be  glad  to 
see  you  here,  whenever  you  like  to  come  our  way. 
Froude  promised  me  he  would  come  in  January,  but 
January  is  breathing  his  last  to-day. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

On  March  6th  my  father  sent  off  his  “ Welcome  to 
Alexandra.”  He  would  like  to  have  seen  the  pageant 
at  the  Prince  of  Wales’  wedding,  but  his  ticket  for  the 
Chapel  only  arrived  on  the  10th,  having  been  mis-sent. 

After  the  arrival  of  the  Princess  of  Wales  in  England, 
Lady  Augusta  Bruce  wrote : 


Windsor  Castle, 

March  8th,  1863. 

Dear  Mr  Tennyson, 

Last  night,  a few  minutes  after  the  advent  of  the 
lovely  Bride,  while  I felt  my  heart  still  glowing  from  seeing  the 
look  of  inexpressible  brightness,  confidence,  and  happiness,  with 
which  she  alighted  on  the  threshold  of  Windsor  Castle  and  threw 
herself  into  the  arms  of  her  new  family,  your  letter,  and 
the  beautiful  lines  of  welcome  it  enclosed,  were  put  into  my 
hands. 

I cannot  convey  to  you  the  impression  they  made  on  me,  or 
how  I longed  to  put  them  into  the  hands  of  our  beloved  Queen, 
how  I longed  that  the  heart  of  the  nation  should  be  moved  and 
touched  by  them,  as  mine  had  been,  that  the  noble,  soul-inspiring 


490 


WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA.”  [l863 

feeling  of  which  we  have  witnessed  the  outburst,  should  find 
itself  so  expressed.  The  Queen’s  response  to  your  words  was  all 
that  I had  expected.  Her  Majesty  desires  me  to  thank  you  very 
warmly,  and  to  tell  you  with  how  much  pleasure  she  has  read  the 
lines1,  and  how  much  she  rejoices  that  the  sweet  and  charming 
Princess  should  be  thus  greeted. 

One  looks  at  her  with  trembling  hope,  but  every  expression, 
every  act,  word,  and  gesture  more  than  justifies  one’s  most 
sanguine  expectations  and  desires.  God  grant  it  for  the  sake  of 
the  Prince,  the  Country,  and  I am  tempted  to  feel  above  all,  for 
the  sake  of  that  sorrowing  heart,  which  is  ever  more  and  more 
being  lifted  up  to  the  divine  height  of  which  you  speak.  Truly 
the  royal  mourner  is  bearing  this  joy  as  she  has  borne  the 
sorrow,  and  it  is  a spectacle  that  would  move  a heart  of  stone.  I 
should  have  liked  you  and  dear  Mrs  Tennyson  to  see  the  light 
on  Her  Majesty’s  countenance,  as  she  read  your  lines  and  as  she 
speaks  of  the  young  joyous  bride,  so  joyous  but  so  tender  and 
gentle  to  the  widowed  mother;  also  when  Her  Majesty  speaks 
of  the  feeling  manifested  by  her  people,  realizing  as  she  does  all 
that  is  contained  in  it. 

I remain  yours  truly, 

Augusta  Bruce. 

At  this  time  my  father’s  indignation  against  Russia 
for  her  treatment  of  Poland  was  boundless.  He  was 
filled  with  horror  too  at  the  gigantic  civil  war  in  America, 
although  he  had  always  looked  forward  anxiously  to  the 
total  abolition  of  slavery2 : but  he  had  hoped  that  it  might 
have  been  accomplished  gradually  and  peacefully. 

In  May  the  Queen  asked  my  father  what  she  could 
do  for  him,  and  he  said:  “ Nothing,  Madam,  but  shake 
my  two  boys  by  the  hand.  It  may  keep  them  loyal  in 
the  troublous  times  to  come.”  So  on  the  9th  Her 
Majesty  sent  for  us  all  to  Osborne.  We  lunched  with 

1 “A  Welcome,”  published  by  Moxon  (March,  1863). 

2 He  would  sing  with  enthusiasm  the  great  chorus  of  the  (t  Battle-hymn 
of  the  Republic  ” : 

“ Singing  ‘ Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah!’ 

His  soul  goes  marching  on...” 


1863] 


VISIT  TO  OSBORNE. 


491 


Lady  Augusta  Bruce,  and  drove  with  her  in  the 
grounds. 

After  returning  to  the  Palace  we  waited  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  the  Queen  came  to  us.  All  the 
Princesses  came  in  by  turns,  Prince  Leopold  also. 

My  mother  wrote : 

The  Queen  is  not  like  her  portraits,  her  face  is  full 
of  intelligence  and  is  very  mobile  and  full  of  sympathy. 
A.  was  delighted  with  ‘the  breadth  and  freedom  of  her 
mind.’  We  talked  of  everything  in  heaven  and  earth. 
Shades  of  pain  and  sadness  often  passed  over  the 
Queen’s  face. 

On  the  1 ith  a Queen’s  messenger  rode  over,  bringing 
from  Her  Majesty  Guizot’s  edition  of  Prince  Albert’s 
Speeches , In  der  Stille  by  Karl  Sudhoff,  Lieder  des 
Leides  by  Albert  Zeller,  and  an  Album  of  the  Queen’s, 
in  which  A.  was  to  write  something.”  He  wrote  out 
“All  along  the  Valley,”  and  the  next  day  sent  the 
following  letter  to  Lady  Augusta  Bruce : 

May  12th,  1863. 

Dear  Lady  Augusta, 

I had  no  time  yesterday  to  overlook  the 
volume  which  Her  Majesty  sent  me.  I did  but  see  the 
inscription  in  the  beginning  by  the  Duchess  of  Kent  and 
Goethe’s  “ Edel  sei  der  Mensch  ” in  the  Prince’s  hand- 
writing — a poem  which  has  always  appeared  to  me  one 
of  the  grandest  things  which  Goethe  or  any  other  man 
has  written.  Perhaps  some  time  or  other  the  Queen 
will  allow  me  to  look  at  the  book  again. 

The  little  song  which  I inserted  in  it  was  repeated  to 
H.M.  last  year  by  the  Duke  of  Argyll  who  told  me  that 
she  approved  of  it,  and  I thought  it  more  graceful  to 
give  an  unpublished  than  an  already  printed  one. 

Cauteretz,  which  I had  visited  with  my  friend  before 


492 


robertson’s  sermons. 


[l863 

I was  twenty,  had  always  lived  in  my  recollection  as  a 
sort  of  Paradise ; when  I saw  it  once  more,  it  had 
become  a rather  odious  watering-place,  but  the  hills  wore 
their  old  green,  and  the  roaring  stream  had  the  same 
echoes  as  of  old.  Altogether  I like  the  little  piece  as 
well  as  anything  I have  written : I hope  I wrote  it  out 
correctly  — for  I was  very  much  hurried  — and  I feel 
sure  that  in  my  note  to  yourself  I somewhere  or  other 
made  pure  nonsense  of  a sentence  by  putting  an  ‘ of  ’ for 
an  ‘ a ’ or  ‘ and.’ 

I have  read  Guizot’s  Preface,  which  is  just  what  it 
ought  to  be  — compact,  careful,  reverential : I have  also 
dipt  slightly  into  the  Meditations  and  what  I have  read 
of  them  I can  quite  approve  of : their  one  defect  to  me 
being  that  I discern  the  German  through  the  translation. 
Passages  here  and  there  which  would  look  quite  natural 
in  the  original  read  a little  too  quaintly  in  our  English : 
yet  I find  my  appreciation  of  these  essays  scarce  lessened 
by  feeling  that  they  are  a translation.  They  are  true- 
hearted, tender,  and  solacing,  and  contrasting  advanta- 
geously with  our  disquisitions  on  these  subjects.  Does 
H.M.  know  the  sermons  of  Robertson  of  Brighton?  he 
died  young,  not  very  long  ago.  These  have  always 
appeared  to  me  the  most  spiritual  utterances  of  any 
minister  of  the  church  in  our  times. 

I am  glad  that  the  Queen  remembers  my  visit  with 
pleasure,  and  refers  to  the  conversation  she  held  with  us, 
not  without  interest. 

It  was  very  good  of  you  to  think  of  bringing  the 
book : we  were  sorry,  it  could  not  be. 

Believe  me,  dear  Lady  Augusta, 

Yours  very  truly, 


A.  Tennyson. 


1863] 


LETTER  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 


493 


My  father  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll : 


My  dear  Duke, 


Farringford, 

May  2 %th,  1863. 


I have  delayed  so  long  granting  the  “ abso- 
lution V’  that  like  enough  by  this  time  you  may  have 
forgotten  that  you  desired  it. 

However  it  is  granted. 

Only  do  not,  after  absolution,  begin  sinning  the  sin 
again  with  a greater  gusto. 

Of  course  I am  glad  to  have  given  a moment’s  satis- 
faction to  our  poor  Queen,  glad  too  that  you  give  a 
somewhat  better  account  of  her. 

I had  a very  pleasant  two  days’  visit  to  Cliveden.  I 
sat  in  your  favourite  seat  which  looks  over  the  reach  of 
the  river,  and  regretted  that  you  were  not  at  my  side. 
Gladstone  was  at  C.  with  me.  I had  met  him  before, 
but  had  never  seen  him  so  nearly.  Very  pleasant,  and 
very  interesting  he  was,  even  when  he  discoursed  on 
Homer,  where  most  people  think  him  a little  hobby- 
horsical : let  him  be.  His  hobby-horse  is  of  the  intellect 
and  with  a grace. 

Yours  ever,  A.  Tennyson. 


In  the  summer  we  went  on  a tour  to  York,  Harro- 
gate, Ripon  and  Fountains  Abbey:  my  father  was  busy 
with  his  translation  of  Homer,  and  with  his  Alcaics  to 
Milton. 


O mighty-mouth’d  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O skill’d  to  sing  of  Time  and  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a name  to  resound  for  ages. 


1 Because  the  Duke  had  repeated  to  the  Queen  “ All  along  the  Valley.” 


494  EXPERIMENTS  IN  CLASSICAL  METRE.  [l863 

After  the  different  experiments  in  Classical  metre  had 
been  published  in  the  Cornhill  for  December,  my  uncle 
Frederick  wrote  as  follows  : 

I got  a letter  from  Fitzgerald  yesterday,  in  reply  to  a 
note  from  me  communicating  to  him  poor  Thackeray’s  sudden 
death,  which  I thought  it  very  possible  he  might  never  have 
learnt  in  his  solitude  and  indifference  to  newspapers.  He  tells 
me  he  has  been  ill  with  his  old  complaint,  blood  to  the  head,  and 
expects  to  be  taken  off  by  it  in  the  end ; he  hopes  it  may  be 
suddenly,  that  he  may  not  linger  after  an  attack  in  a paralysed 
state.  But  there  is  “ a Providence  that  shapes  our  ends”  and 
whatever  those  ends  may  be,  whether  apoplexy,  paralysis,  or 
the  painless  separation  of  the  man  from  his  integuments,  or 
natural  death,  not  a very  different  thing  from  putting  off  your 
clothes  to  go  to  bed,  no  doubt  (tho’  poor  Fitz  cannot  see  a 
hand’s  breadth  before  him  in  these  matters)  all  is  for  the  best.  I 
read  Alfred’s  experiments  in  Classical  metres  in  the  Cornhill , and 
think  them  clever,  though  I prefer  the  translation  from  Homer. 
I send  him  an  Italian  sonnet  which  I am  rather  proud  of,  though 
Petrarch  would  stand  aghast  at  it,  and  Dante  would  tell  me  to 
mind  my  own  business. 

At  Christmas,  Mr  Jowett,  Mr  W.  G.  Clark  (Public 
Orator  at  Cambridge),  Dr  and  Mrs  Butler,  and  the 
Bradleys  visited  us.  The  flow  of  my  father’s  jests  and 
stories,  when  he  had  sympathetic  listeners,  was  inexhaust- 
ible: and  this  party  was  particularly  sympathetic. 

One  evening  they  were  talking  of  repartee,  and  my 
father  said,  laughing : “ I would  give  all  my  poems  to 
have  made  the  two  following  retorts  courteous,  (i)  A 
certain  French  king,  seeing  at  Court  a man  said  to  be 
very  like  him,  blurted  out,  ‘ You  are  very  like  our  family: 
is  it  possible  that  your  mother  was  much  at  Court  ? ’ ‘ No  ! 
sire,’  said  the  man,  ‘ but  my  father  was.’  (2)  The  Prince 
Regent,  being  in  Portsmouth  one  day  and  seeing  Jack 
Towers  across  the  street,  shouted  out  in  his  royal  way, 
‘ Hulloa,  Towers,  I hear  you  are  the  greatest  blackguard 


PERFECT  REPARTEES. 


495 


1863] 

in  Portsmouth!’  Towers  replied  with  a low  bow,  ‘I 
hope  your  Royal  Highness  has  not  come  here  to  take 
away  my  character ! ’ ” 

He  also  thought  that  two  of  the  neatest  repartees 
were  (i)  the  reply  of  Margaret  More  to  a Lady 
Manners,  both  having  had  honours  conferred  on  their 
families.  To  the  satirical  remark  of  Lady  Manners 
“ Honores  mutant  Mores,”  Margaret  More  replied : 
“That  goes  better  in  English,  Madam,  — ‘Honours 
change  Manners.’  ” (2)  The  reply  of  the  Italian  lady 

to  Napoleon  who  said  to  her,  “Tutti  Italian!  sono 
perfidi.”  “ Non  tutti,  ma  Buona  parte.” 

At  the  end  of  December  my  father  was  finishing 
“ Aylmer’s  Field.”  He  said  “ The  story  is  incalculably 
difficult  to  tell,  the  dry  facts  are  so  prosaic  in  themselves.” 
He  often  pointed  out  how  hard  he  had  found  such  and 
such  a passage,  how  much  work  and  thought  it  had  cost 
him ; for  instance,  the  lawyer  at  work  in  chambers ; the 
pompous  old  Aylmer  in  his  wrath ; the  suicide.  He 
liked  his  own  descriptions  of  English  landscape,  and 
of  cottages  covered  with  creepers ; and  especially  the 
passage  about  the  Traveller’s  Joy. 


The  following  letter  was  written  by  my  father  to 
a stranger  who  questioned  him  as  to  his  belief  in  a 
hereafter. 

Sir, 

I have  been  considering  your  questions,  but 
I am  not  a God  or  a disembodied  spirit  that  I should 
answer  them.  I can  only  say  that  I sympathize  with 
your  grief,  and  if  faith  mean  anything  at  all  it  is  trusting 
to  those  instincts,  or  feelings,  or  whatever  they  may  be 
called,  which  assure  us  of  some  life  after  this. 


A.  Tennyson. 


496  LETTER  TO  SWINBURNE.  [l863- 

He  also  wrote  to  Mr  Swinburne  about  “Atalanta  in 
Calydon  ” : 

My  dear  Sir, 

Accept  my  congratulations  on  the  success  of 
your  Greek  play.  I had  some  strong  objections  to  parts 
of  it,  but  these  I think  have  been  modified  by  a re- 
perusal, and  at  any  rate  I daresay  you  would  not  care  to 
hear  them ; here  however  is  one.  Is  it  fair  for  a Greek 
chorus  to  abuse  the  Deity  something  in  the  style  of  the 
Hebrew  prophets  ? 

Altogether  it  is  many  a long  day  since  I have  read 
anything  so  fine ; for  it  is  not  only  carefully  written,  but 
it  has  both  strength  and  splendour,  and  shows  moreover 
that  you  have  a fine  metrical  invention  which  I envy 
you. 


Yours  very  truly,  A.  Tennyson. 


APPENDIX. 


(P.  7.)  Professor  Hales'  account  of  Louth  School. 

They  (the  masters)  were  not  cruel-hearted  men ; to  make  ears 
tingle,  bones  ache,  life  generally  a burden  and  a misery,  was  no  extreme 
pleasure  to  them.  Small  specimens  of  humanity  leaping  and  dancing, 
and  wringing  their  hands,  and  shrieking  as  if  engaged  in  the  worship  of 
some  Baal  who  perchance  slept,  and  must  needs  be  awakened,  could 
scarcely  have  been  agreeable  objects  of  contemplation ; but  they  knew 
not  of  any  other  method  in  which  instruction  might  possibly  be  im- 
parted.... To  shew  how  completely  we  lay  at  the  mercy  of  the  head- 
master, I perhaps  ought  to  state  that  we  generally  sat  when  “ up  ” to 
him  upon  one  long  form,  opposite  to  which  stood  a chair,  on  which  was 
seated  the  particular  boy  who  was  “ going  on.”  Our  master  adopted  for 
himself  the  peripatetic,  or,  more  strictly  perhaps,  the  ana-  or  kata- 
patetic  method  ; his  beat  was  immediately  in  front  of  the  form  on  which 
we  sat,  so  that  he  could  get  at  the  centre  class  as  he  paced  up  and 
down.  He  very  frequently  availed  himself  of  his  opportunities ; and 
with  the  masterly  dexterity  and  quickness  which  distinguished  him, 
often  succeeded  in  “ touching  up  ” each  one  of  us  in  the  course  of  a 
single  promenade.  But  most  pitiable  was  the  position  of  the  poor  boy 
on  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  master’s  line  of  walk.  That  chair 
was  a sort  of  altar  on  which  boy-sacrifices  were  offered.  There  the 
youth  sat,  exposed  on  every  side  to  the  blast  of  blows  and  boxes  that 
might  descend  on  him  at  any  moment,  which  were  sure  to  descend  upon 
him  sooner  or  later  in  a hideous  hurricane. 

(P.  43.)  Ghosts.  (Prologue  of  my  fathers  paper  written 
for  the  “Apostles.”) 

He  who  has  the  power  of  speaking  of  the  spiritual  world,  speaks  in 
a simple  manner  of  a high  matter.  He  speaks  of  life  and  death,  and 
the  things  after  death.  He  lifts  the  veil,  but  the  form  behind  it  is 
shrouded  in  deeper  obscurity.  He  raises  the  cloud,  but  he  darkens  the 


t.  1. 


497 


32 


49s 


APPENDIX. 


prospect.  He  unlocks  with  a golden  key  the  iron-grated  gates  of  the 
charnel  house,  he  throws  them  wide  open.  And  forth  issue  from  the 
inmost  gloom  the  colossal  Presences  of  the  Past,  majores  humano ; 
some  as  they  lived,  seemingly  pale,  and  faintly  smiling;  some  as  they 
died,  still  suddenly  frozen  by  the  chill  of  death ; and  some  as  they 
were  buried,  with  dropped  eyelids,  in  their  cerements  and  their  winding 
sheets. 

The  listeners  creep  closer  to  each  other,  they  are  afraid  of  the 
drawing  of  their  own  breaths,  the  beating  of  their  own  hearts.  The 
voice  of  him  who  speaks  alone  like  a mountain  stream  on  a still  night 
fills  up  and  occupies  the  silence.  He  stands  as  it  were  on  a vantage 
ground.  He  becomes  the  minister  and  expounder  of  human  sympathies. 
His  words  find  the  heart  like  the  arrows  of  truth.  Those  who  laughed 
long  before,  have  long  ago  become  solemn,  and  those  who  were  solemn 
before,  feel  the  awful  sense  of  unutterable  mystery.  The  speaker 
pauses : 

“Wherefore,”  says  one,  “granting  the  intensity  of  the  feeling, 
wherefore  this  fever  and  fret  about  a baseless  vision?”  “Do  not 
assume,”  says  another,  “ that  any  vision  is  baseless.” 


(P.  108.)  Letters  about  Arthur  Hallam  (after 
his  death). 

From  R.  J.  Tennant  to  my  father. 

Nov.  26th,  1833. 

My  dear  Alfred, 

I wish  I were  gifted  with  a far  sight  to  reach  over  hills  and 
towns  even  as  far  as  Somersby  and  thro’  the  windows  of  the  house, 
that  I might  see  you,  how  you  look  when  you  come  down  to  breakfast, 
and  after  breakfast  whether  you  sit  reading,  writing  or  musing,  whether 
you  are  gloomy  or  cheerful ; I hope  the  latter ; and  that  you  can  look 
back  upon  the  mournful  past  without  that  bitterness  of  spirit  which  you 
felt  when  I saw  you.  I would  rather  not  allude  to  this  ; but  I wish  to 
talk  to  you  of  what  has  been  much  in  my  thoughts  since  you  were  in 
town,  and  on  which  I have  spoken  to  many  of  our  friends.  It  appears 
to  be  a universal  wish  among  them,  that  whatever  writings  Arthur  has 
left  should  be  collected  and  published ; that  there  may  be  some 
memorial  of  him  among  us,  which,  tho’  it  will  fall  very  far  short  of 
what  was  hoped  and  expected  of  him,  will  yet  be  highly  gratifying  to  his 
friends,  and  as  we  think  will  not  be  without  interest  and  value  to  many 


APPENDIX. 


499 


others.  A great  number  of  his  poems  are  such  as  everyone  will 
delight  in,  and  there  are  several  essays  that  will  do  honour  to  his 
powers  of  original  thought  and  expression.  It  seemed  the  most  proper 
way  to  cause  this  to  be  done  if  you  were  to  intimate  it  to  Mr  Hallam  as 
the  general  wish  of  his  friends.  His  desire  that  you  would  suggest  to 
him  whatever  you  think  that  Arthur  would  have  wished  to  be  done, 
gives  you  ample  opportunity  to  do  this  without  being  in  the  least 
obtrusive.  I asked  Spedding’s  opinion  and  he  entirely  agreed  with  me  ; 
and  he  is  one  whose  opinion  on  such  a matter  is  of  great  weight.  It  is 
possible  that  Mr  Hallam  may  himself  intend  to  do  this ; but  even  if  it 
be  so,  it  will  probably  be  a great  satisfaction  to  him  to  learn  that  this 
feeling  and  wish  prevails  so  generally  among  us,  and  that  such  a wide 
circle  of  men  are  unanimous  in  seeking  to  pay  honour  to  one  who  by 
his  nearer  friends  was  so  deeply  loved.  You  are  not  perhaps  aware 
how  widely  his  loss  is  felt ; one  circumstance  will  show  it ; many  of  his 
less  intimate  acquaintance  have  been  exerting  themselves  to  cause  a 
tablet  to  be  placed  in  Trinity  Chapel  to  his  memory : the  intention 
failed  only  because  he  was  in  fact  not  on  the  foundation.  I hope  you 
will  not  think  it  ill-timed  in  me  to  recall  your  memory  to  what  I fear 
you  already  dwell  too  much  upon.  To  me  the  remembrance  of  Arthur 
is  full  of  delight,  looking  back  upon  the  days  when  he  gave  light  and 
life  to  my  spirit ; it  is  only  when  I need  his  counsels  and  know  that  I 
cannot  any  more  receive  them,  or  when  I think  upon  you  and  your 
sorrow,  that  regret  is  mixed  with  bitterness.  God  bless  you  all.  You 
are  all  in  my  thoughts  night  and  day. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

R.  J.  Tennant. 

From  Robert  Monteith  to  my  father. 

1833. 

My  dear  Alfred, 

I assure  you  I have  never  been  quite  easy  without  having 
had  some  communication  between  us  since  the  news  of  the  loss 
sustained  by  you.  I say  you  because,  though  it  was  and  still  is  to 
myself  one  of  those  dreadful  things  which  at  moments  one  cannot 
bring  oneself  to  believe,  yet  the  sorrow  of  all  others  combined  cannot 
be  supposed  equal  to  that  of  you  and  your  family.  I assure  you  all 
with  whom  I have  spoken  about  it  have  been  full  of  sympathy  with  you, 
and  all  wish,  as  I do,  for  still  stricter  friendship  with  you,  if  it  might  be 


500 


APPENDIX. 


(which  is  all  but  impossible)  that  together  we  might  help  to  fill  up  the 
gap.  One  feeling  that  remains  with  me  is  a longing  to  preserve  all 
those  friends  whom  I know  Hallam  loved  and  whom  I learnt  to  love 
through  him.  He  was  so  much  a centre  round  which  we  moved  that 
now  there  seems  a possibility  of  many  connections  being  all  but 
dissolved.  Since  Hallam’s  death  I almost  feel  like  an  old  man  looking 
back  on  many  friendships  as  something  bygone.  I beseech  you,  do  not 
let  us  permit  this,  you  may  even  dislike  the  interference  of  common 
friendship  for  a time,  but  you  will  be  glad  at  length  to  gather  together 
all  the  different  means  by  which  you  may  feel  not  entirely  in  a different 
world  from  that  in  which  you  knew  and  loved  Hallam.  I will  write 
you  a long  letter  some  day  which  I daresay  will  trouble  you  : if  it  does  I 
shall  be  sorry,  but  it  will  rather  prove  the  propriety  of  our  not  leaving 
you  alone.  I wish  you  were  abroad  with  us  and  am  revolving  some 
schemes  for  seeing  the  south  together.  All  Mr  Garden’s  family  desire 
to  be  most  kindly  remembered  to  you. 

Believe  me  your  very  sincere  friend, 

R.  Monteith. 


(P.  1 17.)  Mariana  in  the  South. 

Arthur  H.  Hallam  to  W.  B.  Donne 1. 

Trinity, 

Sunday.  [1831.] 

My  dear  Donne, 

I rejoice  exceedingly  at  the  admiration  you  express  for 
Alfred  Tennyson  in  general,  and  the  Indian  ditty2  in  particular. 

I expect  you  to  be  properly  grateful  to  me  for  sending  you  by  these 
presents  another  poem,  of  which  to  say  that  I love  it  would  be  only 
saying  that  it  is  his.  It  is  intended,  you  will  perceive,  as  a kind  of 
pendant  to  his  former  poem  of  “Mariana,”  the  idea  of  both  being  the 
expression  of  desolate  loneliness,  but  with  this  distinctive  variety  in 
the  second,  that  it  paints  the  forlorn  feeling  as  it  would  exist  under  the 
influence  of  different  impressions  of  sense.  When  we  were  journeying 
together  this  summer  through  the  South  of  France  we  came  upon  a 
range  of  country  just  corresponding  to  his  preconceived  thought  of  a 
barrenness,  so  as  in  the  South,  and  the  portraiture  of  the  scenery  in 
this  poem  is  most  faithful.  You  will,  I think,  agree  with  me  that  the 

1 Afterwards  “ Examiner  of  plays.”  This  hitherto  unpublished  letter  has  been 
kindly  given  to  me  by  his  son  Mr  Mowbray  Donne. 

2 “ Anacaona,”  p.  56. 


APPENDIX. 


501 

essential  and  distinguishing  character  of  the  conception  requires  in  the 
“ Southern  Mariana  ” a greater  lingering  on  the  outward  circumstances, 
and  a less  palpable  transition  of  the  poet  into  Mariana’s  feelings,  than 
was  the  case  in  the  former  poem.  Were  this  not  implied  in  the  subject 
it  would  be  a fault : “ an  artist,”  as  Alfred  is  wont  to  say,  “ ought  to  be 
lord  of  the  five  senses,”  but  if  he  lacks  the  inward  sense  which  reveals 
to  him  what  is  inward  in  the  heart,  he  has  left  out  the  part  of  Hamlet 
in  the  play.  In  this  meaning  I think  the  objection  sometimes  made  to 
a poem,  that  it  is  too  picturesque,  is  a just  objection ; but  according  to 
a more  strict  use  of  words,  poetry  cannot  be  too  pictorial,  for  it  cannot 
represent  too  truly,  and  when  the  object  of  the  poetic  power  happens  to 
be  an  object  of  sensuous  perception  it  is  the  business  of  the  poetic 
language  to  paint. 

It  is  observable  in  the  mighty  models  of  art,  left  for  the  worship  of 
ages  by  the  Greeks  and  those  too  rare  specimens  of  Roman  production 
which  breathe  a Greek  spirit,  that  their  way  of  imaging  a mood  of  the 
human  heart  in  a group  of  circumstances,  each  of  which  reciprocally 
affects  and  is  affected  by  the  unity  of  that  mood,  resembles  much 
Alfred’s  manner  of  delineation,  and  should  therefore  give  additional 
sanction  to  the  confidence  of  our  praise. 

I believe  you  will  find  instances  in  all  the  Greek  poems  of  the 
highest  order,  — at  present  I can  only  call  into  distinct  recollection 
the  divine  passage  about  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  in  Lucretius  and 
the  desolation  of  Ariadne  in  Catullus,  and  the  fragments  of  Sappho, 
in  which  I see  much  congeniality  to  Alfred’s  peculiar  power.  I beg 
pardon  for  this  prose,  here  comes  something  better. 

(Here  the  “ Southern  Mariana  ” is  copied  at  length.) 

Your  very  sincere  friend, 

A.  H.  Hallam. 

(P.  207.)  The  Reception  of  the  Early  Poems,  by 
Aubrey  de  Vere. 

1832-1845. 

There  are  moments  when  the  day  on  which  I first  made  acquain- 
tance with  Alfred  Tennyson’s  poetry  seems  to  me  less  remote  than 
those  days  upon  which  events  comparatively  recent  took  place.  It 
is  more  clearly  marked  in  my  memory  than  the  day  on  which  I first 
met  the  poet  himself.  My  acquaintance  with  him  as  a poet  had  been 
so  long  and  familiar,  that  to  have  made  acquaintance  with  him  as  a 
man  would  have  been  to  me  something  remarkable  only  if  the  man 


5°2 


APPENDIX. 


and  the  poet  had  been  in  striking  contrast.  On  the  contrary  they  were 
very  like  each  other. 

The  mode  in  which  I first  made  acquaintance  with  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson’s poetry  is  recorded  in  a letter  which  was  written  by  me  after 
the  death  of  the  late  Lord  Houghton  and  published  in  his  recent 
biography  by  Mr  Wemyss  Reid.  Lord  Houghton,  then  Richard 
Monckton  Milnes,  a Cambridge  friend  of  my  eldest  brother’s,  drove 
up  to  the  door  of  our  house  at  Curragh  Chase  one  night  in  1832, 
and  in  a few  days  had  quite  won  our  hearts  by  his  pleasant  ways,  his 
wit,  and  his  astonishing  acquaintance  with  all  the  modern  European 
Literatures.  He  had  brought  with  him  the  first  number  of  a new 
magazine  entitled  The  Englishman  containing  Arthur  Hallam’s  essay 
on  Tennyson’s  Poems , chiefly  Lyrical.  The  day  on  which  I first  took 
the  slender  volume  into  my  hands  was  with  me  a memorable  one. 
Arthur  Hallam’s  essay  had  contrasted  two  different  schools  of  modern 
poetry,  calling  one  of  these  classes  Poets  of  Reflection,  and  the  other 
class  Poets  of  Sensation,  the  latter  represented  by  Shelley  and  Keats. 
Of  Keats  I knew  nothing,  and  of  Shelley  very  little ; but  the  new  poet 
seemed  to  me,  while  he  had  about  him  a touch  of  both  the  classes  thus 
characterized,  to  have  yet  little  in  common  with  either.  He  was  emi- 
nently original,  and  about  that  originality  there  was  for  me  a wild, 
inexplicable  magic  and  a deep  pathos,  though  hardly  as  simple  as 
Wordsworth’s  pathos,  and  with  nothing  of  its  homeliness ; and  the 
character  of  its  language  was  nearly  the  opposite  of  that  which  Words- 
worth had,  at  least  in  his  youth,  asserted  to  be  the  true  poetic  diction, 
viz.  the  language  of  common  life  among  the  educated.  The  diction 
of  the  new  poet  was  elaborate  in  accordance  with  a certain  artificiality 
belonging  to  the  time,  that  is,  whenever  strange  combinations  of  words 
were  needed  in  order  to  produce  a corresponding  exactitude  of  sig- 
nificance. The  youthful  poet  very  soon  afterwards  discarded  that 
elaborateness,  perceiving  that  the  loss  of  simplicity  caused  by  it  could 
not  be  compensated  for  by  any  degree  of  expressiveness,  and  adopted 
a style  especially  marked  by  its  purity.  But  the  subtle  exquisiteness 
of  his  imagination  remained  unchanged  and  had  never  required  any 
such  artificial  aid.  It  had  ever  “fed  among  the  lilies”  of  a “Fairy 
Land/’  which  to  it  had  ever  been  a native  land.  With  the  bleating 
of  the  lamb  or  the  lowing  of  the  herd  there  mingled  from  afar  “ the 
horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing.”  I remember  my  dear  friend,  Sara 
Coleridge,  daughter  of  the  poet,  once  remarking  to  me  that,  however 
inferior  the  bulk  of  a young  man’s  poetry  may  be  to  that  of  the  poet 
when  mature,  it  generally  possesses  some  passages  with  a special 
freshness  of  their  own,  and  an  inexplicable  charm  to  be  found  in  them 
alone.  Such  was  the  charm  with  which  many  of  those  early  poems 


APPENDIX. 


503 


captivated  me,  a charm  which  they  have  never  lost.  Still,  as  in  that 
old  time,  the  old  oak-tree,  “thick-leaved,  ambrosial,”  sighs  over  the 
grave  of  “Claribel.”  The  new  interpretation  of  Nature  given  to  me 
then  remains,  and  the  beauty  mingled  with  the  pathos,  when  the  scene 
described  is  one  of  Nature’s  forlornest,  as  in  “The  Dying  Swan,”  or 
in  the  weird  lines 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming 

The  broad  valley  dimm’d  in  the  gloaming  — 

never  cease  to  possess  me  as  they  did  the  day  that  I read  them  first. 
The  sea  beside  which  the  minstrel  lover  chanted  the  ballad  of  “Oriana” 
seemed  to  me  to  uplift  a clamour  of  woe  such  as  no  sea  had  ever 
uttered  before,  and  reminded  me  of  the  “ sad  prophet’s  ” cry,  “ Magnum 
sicut  mare  lamentatio  mea.”  Another  image  of  grief,  if  in  a form  less 
terrible,  yet  more  drearily  desolate,  was  presented  to  me  by  “ Mariana 
in  the  Moated  Grange,”  with  the  blackened  pool  close  by,  and  the 
poplar  that  “ shook  alway  ” above  it.  The  “ Recollections  of  the 
Arabian  Nights  ” seemed  all  the  more  wonderful  because  the  picture 
presented  with  such  truthfulness  was  one  taken  less  from  Nature’s  page 
than  that  of  art,  because  its  very  excess  of  magnificence  precluded 
that  effect  of  tawdriness  which  commonly  characterizes  descriptions  of 
Oriental  splendours ; and  also  because  the  harmony  of  the  poem’s 
metre  so  fully  sustained  the  brilliancy  of  its  imagery.  It  was 

“A  world  of  bright  vision  set  floating  in  sound1.” 

Many  of  the  other  poems  impressed  me  not  less  vividly,  and  I re- 
member most  of  them  by  heart  still.  Day  after  day  my  sister  and 
I used  to  read  them  as  we  drove  up  and  down  the  “close  green  ways” 
of  our  woods.  Our  pony  soon  detected  our  abstracted  mood.  Several 
times  he  nearly  upset  us  down  a bank;  and  often  choosing  his  path 
according  to  his  private  judgment,  stood  still  with  his  head  hanging 
over  a gate.  We  sometimes  sketched  an  imaginary  likeness  of  the  un- 
known poet.  We  determined  that  he  must  be  singularly  unlike  Shelley ; 
that  his  step  must  not  be  rapid  but  vague,  that  there  would  be  on  his 
face  less  of  light,  but  more  of  dream  ; that  his  eye  would  be  that  of 
one  who  saw  little  where  the  many  see  much,  and  saw  much  where 
the  many  see  little.  Wholly  unlike  the  young  poet  we  thought  must 
be  the  countenance  of  him  who  had  long  been  the  chief  object  of  our 
poetic  veneration,  the  great  contemplative  Bard  who  had  forsaken  “ the 
fortunate  Isles  of  the  Muses”  for  his  “Tower  of  Speculation  on  the 
mountain  top,”  Coleridge. 


1 Leigh  Hunt. 


504 


APPENDIX. 


In  two  years  more  Alfred  Tennyson  met  us  again  in  the  gift  of  a 
new  volume  : it  had  been  eagerly  waited  for  and  it  was  eagerly  read. 
The  second  volume  was  in  several  particulars  a decided  advance  upon 
the  earlier;  yet  we  enjoyed  it  less  at  first.  Though  its  subjects  were 
more  important  and  were  also  treated  with  more  skill,  a something 
seemed  to  be  wanting.  That  something  was  probably  the  spontaneity 
and  unconsciousness  which  belongs  to  very  youthful  poetry  in  its 
most  felicitous  specimens ; for  its  failures  are  more  numerous  than  its 
successes.  A third  and  maturer  period  comes,  in  which  the  best 
qualities  that  mark  the  first  and  the  second  period  are  found  united. 
A few  poems  in  the  later  volume  touched  us  nearly  in  the  same  way 
as  those  in  the  earlier.  One  of  these  was  “The  Lady  of  Shalott,” 
destined  to  reappear  at  the  interval  of  many  years  in  a nobler,  ampler 
and  richer  form,  but  not  one  which  challenged  more  vividly  the  youth- 
ful imagination.  Another  was  “ Margaret,”  to  which  might  be  added 
“The  Death  of  the  Old  Year,”  and  “The  Miller’s  Daughter”;  but 
most  of  them  were  remoter  themes,  characteristic  of  memorable  epochs, 
or  involving  some  metaphysical  problems.  Those  poems  were  written 
with  very  great  power  and  skill : they  were  unlike  each  other ; they 
showed  that  the  author’s  genius  possessed  an  extraordinary  versatility, 
and  that  besides  what  was  most  characteristic  in  that  genius  he  pos- 
sessed an  exquisite  taste  and  a high  art.  “ Mariana  in  the  South  ” 
breathes  the  air  of  Southern  France ; and  its  sadness  is  touched  by 
an  amenity  which  never  mitigates  the  wintry  dreariness  of  “ Mariana 
in  the  Moated  Grange.”  “ CEnone  ” is  thoroughly  Greek  in  spirit, 
though  far  richer  in  detail  than  the  Greek  art,  a severe  thing,  as  this 
commonly  is.  “ The  May  Queen  ” is  an  enchanting  Idyl  of  English 
Rural  Life,  not  rendered  dull  by  its  moral  but  ennobled  by  it.  The 
“ Dream  of  Fair  Women”  does  not  illustrate  any  particular  country  or 
period  ; but  it  is  a marvellous  specimen  of  one  especial  class  of  poetry, 
that  of  Vision,  which  reached  its  perfection  in  Dante,  whose  verse  the 
young  aspirant  may  have  been  reading  with  a grateful  desire  to  note 
by  this  poem  the  spot  on  which  his  feet  had  rested  for  a time.  There 
is  however  nothing  of  plagiarism  in  it.  “ The  Lotos-Eaters  ” is  not 
more  admirable  for  its  beauty  than  for  its  unity ; everywhere  the 
luxuriously  lovely  scenery  corresponds  with  the  voluptuous  sentiment ; 
though  voluptuous  only  in  the  way  of  enervate  thought,  not  of  passion. 
I remember  the  poet’s  pointing  out  to  me  the  improvement  effected 
later  by  the  introduction  of  the  last  paragraph  setting  forth  the  Lu- 
cretian  Philosophy  respecting  the  Gods,  their  aloofness  from  all  human 
interests  and  elevated  action,  an  Epicurean  and  therefore  hard-hearted 
repose,  sweetened  not  troubled  by  the  endless  wail  from  the  earth. 
The  sudden  change  of  metre  in  the  last  paragraph  has  a highly  artistic 


APPENDIX. 


505 


effect,  that  of  throwing  the  bulk  of  the  poem  as  it  were  into  a remote 
distance.  This  poem  should  be  contrasted  with  another  and  later  one, 
“ Ulysses,”  which  illustrates  the  same  lesson  in  a converse  form.  It 
shows  us  what  Heroism  may  be  even  in  old  age,  though  sustained  by 
little  except  the  love  of  knowledge,  and  the  scorn  of  sloth.  Carlyle 
said  that  it  was  “ Ulysses  ” which  first  convinced  him  that  “ Tennyson 
was  a true  poet.”  I remember  hearing  that  Bishop  Thirlwall  made  the 
same  statement  respecting  “ St  Simeon  Stylites.” 

Another  poem  in  the  second  volume,  which,  if  it  has  not  the  spon- 
taneousness of  many  in  the  first,  at  least  illustrates  a great  theme 
with  a great  and  manifold  mastery,  is  “The  Palace  of  Art.”  In  its 
extreme  subjectivity  it  reminds  us  of  German  genius ; but  though  its 
scope  is  a philosophical  and  spiritual  one,  its  handling  is  as  strikingly 
objective ; and  it  consists  almost  wholly  of  images  which  though  sub- 
ordinated to  moral,  not  material  ends,  yet  possess  a vividness  and  a 
concentrated  power  rarely  found  elsewhere,  and  reminds  us  of  Matthew 
Arnold’s  assertion  that  German  Literature,  however  profound  it  may  be 
in  thought,  is  cumbrous  and  clumsy  in  style  compared  with  English. 
Its  theme  is  the  danger  resulting  from  that  “ Art  Heresy  ” of  modern 
times,  which  substitutes  the  worship  of  Art  for  its  own  sake  in  place 
of  that  reverence  which  man  should  feel  for  it,  only  when  it  knows 
its  place,  and  is  content  to  minister  at  the  altars  of  Powers  greater 
than  itself,  viz.  Nature  and  Religion.  In  this  poem  nearly  every  stanza 
is  a picture  condensed  within  four  lines.  It  describes  a Palace  not 
a Temple,  one  created  by  the  imagination  exclusively  for  its  own 
delight,  an  imagination  so  great  that  it  refuses  all  human  sympathy, 
“ O God-like  isolation  which  art  mine,”  and  yet  so  small  that  it  can 
dream  of  nothing  greater  than  itself. 

I sit  as  God,  holding  no  form  of  Creed, 

But  contemplating  all. 

The  root  of  the  evil,  as  the  poet  clearly  intimates,  is  to  be  found  not 
in  the  Sense,  but  in  Pride,  a greater  crime,  the  sole  expiation  of  which 
is  Humility. 

“ Make  me  a cottage  in  the  vale,”  she  said, 

“Where  I may  mourn  and  pray.” 

This  poem  is  far  greater  in  thought  and  in  power  than  any  of  those 
in  the  earlier  volume,  though  less  attractive  to  some,  perhaps  on  account 
of  an  apparently  didactic  purpose.  I remember  a legend  about  it, 
whether  authentic  or  not.  Alfred  Tennyson  and  Richard  Chenevix 
Trench  had  been  friends  at  Cambridge,  and  had  a common  love  of 
poetry.  Soon  after  his  ordination  the  future  Archbishop  paid  a visit 


506 


APPENDIX. 


to  the  future  Laureate.  He  spoke  about  the  new  heresy  which  sub- 
stituted Art  for  Faith  and  Beauty  for  Sanctity.  His  brother-poet,  it 
is  said,  contested  nothing,  but  simply  listened,  occasionally  replenishing 
his  pipe.  When  Trench  had  taken  his  departure  the  auditor  took  up 
his  pen,  and  the  single  thought  became  a poem.  Later  the  same 
thought  was  illustrated  by  Trench  in  two  poems,  viz.  “ The  Prize  of 
Song,”  one  of  the  stateliest  lyrics  of  modern  times,  and  a noble  repre- 
sentative of  Hellenic  Song : and,  secondly,  in  a sonnet,  beginning, 
“ What  good  soever  in  thy  heart  or  mind.” 

Two  short  poems  of  an  extraordinary  strength  and  majesty  were 
written  at  this  time  : one  would  have  thought  that  they  had  been 
written  at  a maturer  period ; but,  if  I remember  right,  they  were  sug- 
gested by  some  popular  demonstrations  connected  with  the  Reform 
Bill  of  1832,  and  its  rejection  by  the  House  of  Lords.  Their  political 
teaching  shows  that  when  but  twenty-three  years  of  age  Tennyson’s 
love  of  Liberty,  which  at  all  periods  so  strongly  characterized  his 
poetry,  was  accompanied  by  an  equally  strong  conviction  that  Liberty 
must  ever  be  a Moral  Power  beginning  upon  the  spiritual  “ heights  ” 
of  wisdom,  mutual  respect  and  self-control ; and  that  no  despotism 
could  be  more  fatal  than  that  tyranny  of  a majority  in  which  alone 
a material  omnipotence  is  united  with  a legal  one.  These  two  poems 
begin  respectively  with  the  lines,  “ You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease,” 
and  “ Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights.”  Their  massive  grandeur 
results  mainly  from  their  brevity,  and  the  austere  simplicity  of  their 
diction,  which  belongs  to  what  has  sometimes  been  called  the  “ lapidary  ” 
style.  Each  might  indeed  have  been  carved  upon  the  entablature  of 
a temple ; and  I remember  hearing  an  aged  statesman  exclaim  that 
they  reminded  him  of  what  he  felt  when,  driving  across  the  lonely 
plain  of  Paestum,  he  found  himself  confronted  by  its  two  temples. 
Their  power  consists  largely  in  that  perfection  of  poetic  form  with 
which  each  of  them  is  invested.  In  this  respect  they  may  be  profitably 
contrasted  with  a third  poem  which  begins  “ Love  thou  thy  land, 
with  love  far-brought.”  In  thought  and  imagination  that  poem  is 
equal  to  the  former  two ; yet  it  bears  no  comparison  with  them  as 
regards  weight  and  effectiveness,  because  the  same  perfection  of  form 
was  forbidden  to  it  by  the  extent  and  complexity  of  its  theme.  It 
could  not  have  been  caused  by  want  of  pains  on  the  part  of  the  poet. 
An  anecdote  will  illustrate  his  solicitude  on  the  subject  of  poetic  form, 
the  importance  of  which  was  perhaps  not  as  much  appreciated  by 
any  other  writer  since  the  days  of  Greek  poetry.  One  night,  after  he 
had  been  reading  aloud  several  of  his  poems,  all  of  them  short,  he 
passed  one  of  them  to  me  and  said,  “ What  is  the  matter  with  that 
poem?”  I read  it  and  answered,  “ I see  nothing  to  complain  of.”  He 


APPENDIX. 


5°7 


laid  his  fingers  on  two  stanzas  of  it,  the  third  and  fifth,  and  said,  “ Read 
it  again.”  After  doing  so  I said,  “It  has  now  more  completeness  and 
totality  about  it ; but  the  two  stanzas  you  cover  are  among  its  best.” 
“ No  matter,”  he  rejoined,  “ they  make  the  poem  too  longbacked ; and 
they  must  go,  at  any  sacrifice.”  “ Every  short  poem,”  he  remarked, 
“ should  have  a definite  shape,  like  the  curve,  sometimes  a single, 
sometimes  a double  one,  assumed  by  a severed  tress  or  the  rind  of 
an  apple  when  flung  on  the  floor.” 

In  1842,  twelve  years  after  the  publication  of  Alfred  Tennyson’s 
first  volume,  a new  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  two  volumes,  the 
earlier  of  which  included  his  poems  previously  published,  with  a few 
exceptions,  while  the  second  was  wholly  new.  It  was  this  edition 
which  carried  his  poetry  beyond  a narrower  circle  and  fixed  it  in  the 
heart  of  the  nation  : but  in  winning  the  many  the  poet  did  not  cease 
to  delight  the  “ fit  and  few.”  They  gladly  recognised  the  progress 
which  his  art  had  made,  a progress  the  result  of  well-directed  pains, 
as  well  as  of  the  poet’s  moral  characteristics  and  peculiarities. 

Genius  is  often  frittered  away  by  the  social  popularity  which  greets 
its  earlier  achievements,  one  among  the  worst  forms  of  adulation. 
Henry  Taylor  amusingly  describes  his  own  immunity  from  such  perils. 
He  was,  he  tells  us, 

“ From  social  snares  with  ease 
Saved  by  that  gracious  gift,  inaptitude  to  please.” 

The  younger  poet  was  as  little  open  to  such  snares.  He  was 
proof  against  them  through  the  absence  of  vanity,  even  more  than 
through  shyness,  indolence,  or  any  other  peculiarity.  He  was  born  a 
poet ; and  had  no  ambition  except  the  single  one  of  first  meriting  and 
then  receiving  the  poet’s  crown,  an  ambition  the  unselfish  character 
of  which  is  so  asserted  by  Shelley  in  the  expression  “ Fame  is  Love 
disguised.”  No  matter  how  much  courted  he  might  be,  no  attraction, 
whether  of  wit,  beauty  or  fashion,  could  prevail  on  him  to  frequent  any 
society  except  that  of  those  whom  he  cordially  liked ; and  in  none 
did  he  ever  talk  for  effect.  Neither  did  he  allow  himself,  as  so  many 
of  our  best  modern  poets  have  done,  to  be  diverted  from  poetry  by 
inferior  forms  of  labour ; though  the  loss  very  frequently  sustained 
by  poetry  is  doubtless  much  compensated  by  the  signal  aptitude  which 
the  poetic  faculty  sometimes  shows  for  tasks  not  properly  its  own, 
whether  literary  or  practical.  He  delighted  in  all  forms  of  knowledge, 
but  he  was  faithful  to  his  own  gift,  and  drew  all  things  beside  into 
the  service  of  poetry,  as  their  Suzerain.  For  this  task  the  largeness 
of  his  sympathies  specially  qualified  him,  though  it  might  have  produced 


508 


APPENDIX. 


the  opposite  effect  if  he  had  not  possessed  a great  unity  of  purpose 
as  well  as  a great  imaginative  versatility. 

Another  gift  contributed  to  make  these  twelve  years  fruitful  to  him, 
that  of  a singular  common  sense.  This  gift,  often  regarded  as  but 
an  humble  one,  is  in  reality  nothing  less  than  a form  of  inspiration, 
for,  like  the  loftier  inspiration,  it  works  it  knows  not  how,  and  spon- 
taneously. It  is  often,  as  obviously  in  the  case  of  Shakespeare,  united 
with  the  highest  genius ; and  it  is  as  often  signally  defective  in  men 
of  high  abilities,  but  men  who  in  genius  have  no  part.  The  gift  of 
common  sense  united  with  that  of  imagination  attracted  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson to  the  humorous  side  of  things  as  well  as  to  the  pathetic,  and 
thus  made  him  learned  in  Life,  the  Life  of  the  Humanities.  All  those 
things  in  them  which  others  see  but  in  their  accidents,  the  mind  thus 
dowered  with  a twofold  inspiration  sees  in  their  essence. 

Those  English  Idyls1  were  a gift  such  as  no  other  writer  of  Idyls 
had  ever  given  to  his  countrymen.  No  Englishman  can  read  them 
in  far  lands  without  the  memory  coming  back  to  him  of  the  days  when 
he  sat  on  an  English  stile,  and  watched  English  lambs  at  play,  or 
walked  beneath  hedgerow  trees  in  “ a land  of  ancient  peace  ” listening 
to  the  last  note  of  the  last  bird-song  as  the  twilight  deepened  into 
night.  He  will  see  an  English  Ruth  adorning  with  flowers  the  hat  of 
the  child  that  is  not  hers,  in  the  hope  of  winning  his  grandfather’s 
heart,  or  sitting  on  the  poppied  ground  amid  the  wheat,  while 

The  reapers  reap’d 

And  the  sun  fell  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

He  will  see  “ The  Gardener’s  Daughter,”  and  her  garden  described,  to 
quote  Henry  Taylor’s  words,  “as  only  Tennyson  could  describe  it,” 
that  Garden  bordered  by 

A league  of  grass,  wash’d  by  a- slow  broad  stream 
That  stirr’d  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 

Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 

Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a bridge 
Crown’d  with  the  minster  towers. 

It  would  be  hard  to  find  two  Idyls  more  perfect  than  “ Dora  ” 
and  “The  Gardener’s  Daughter,”  or  more  unlike  each  other  — the 
former  so  Hebraic  in  its  stern  and  unadorned  simplicity ; the  latter 
so  pure  in  its  richness,  sweetness  and  pathos,  a pathos  not  of  sorrow, 
but  of  joy,  one  that  delights,  not  wounds.  I remember  an  incident 
connected  with  “The  Gardener’s  Daughter.”  The  poet  had  corrected 

1 My  father  used  to  spell  Idyls  then  with  one  for  these  shorter  Idyls,  and 
Idylls  with  two  “/’s”  for  the  epic  “Idylls  of  the  King.” 


APPENDIX. 


509 


it  as  carefully  as  he  had  originally  composed  it  in  his  head,  where 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  keeping  more  than  one  poem  at  a time  before 
he  wrote  down  any  of  them.  I found  him  one  day  in  James  Spedding’s 
rooms.  He  shewed  me  the  MS  and  said,  “The  corrections  jostled 
each  other,  and  the  poem  seemed  o,ut  of  gear.  Spedding  has  just 
now  remarked  that  it  wants  nothing  but  that  this  passage,  forty  lines, 
should  be  omitted.  He  is  right.”  It  was  omitted. 

Few  of  these  Idyls  are  more  perfect  than  “ Audley  Court,”  short 
as  it  is.  What  can  be  more  vigorous  than  these  lines  illustrative  of 
simple  aversion,  as  distinguished  from  hatred  or  resentment? 

Oh  ! who  would  love  ? I woo’d  a woman  once. 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind, 

And  all  my  heart  turned  from  her,  as  a thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea  ; but  let  me  live  my  life. 

Those  descriptions  of  nature  owe  half  their  charm  to  the  cir- 
cumstance that  the  illustrations  of  men  and  manners  are  in  entire 
harmony  with  them.  In  them  material  nature  and  human  life  are 
mirrors  that  mutually  reflect  each  other.  There  exist  pictures  in  which 
the  landscape  is  by  one  artist  and  the  figures  by  another.  Compared 
with  these  poems  they  are  failures. 

Among  the  Idyls  none  are  more  delightful  than  those  which  illustrate 
the  life  of  young  Englishmen  and  Englishwomen.  Such  are  “ Edwin 
Morris,”  “ Locksley  Hall,”  “The  Day-Dream,”  and  “Will  Waterproof’s 
Lyrical  Monologue.”  To  me  the  most  delightful  of  these  is  “The 
Talking  Oak.”  It  is  more  difficult  to  make  the  Manor  House  poetical 
than  the  Cottage ; but  here  as  in  “ The  Princess  ” and  elsewhere  that 
arduous  problem  is  solved.  In  it  the  poet’s  gift  of  expressive,  har- 
monious and  richly  coloured  language  reaches  its  highest : 

O rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 

And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

Very  remarkable  is  the  skill  with  which  “ The  Talking  Oak,”  while 
depicting  the  country  life  of  England,  connects  with  it  a series  of 
sketches  illustrating,  each  in  but  a few  happy  touches,  many  of  her 
past  historical  periods.  Its  author  told  me  that  this  poem  was  an 
experiment  meant  to  test  the  degree  in  which  it  is  within  the  power 


APPENDIX. 


510 

of  poetry  to  humanize  external  nature.  The  subtlety  of  his  own  sym- 
pathies with  Nature  probably  rendered  it  easier  for  him  than  for  any 
other  poet  to  invest  tree  or  stream  with  human  affections  and  sym- 
pathies. He  mentioned  that  he  had  written,  as  a companion  to  this 
poem,  another  one,  dealing  in  similar  fashion  with  a rivulet,  but  that 
it  was  lost : and  he  repeated  a line  the  syllables  of  which  imitated 
the  sound  of  a stream  running  over  a stony  bed,  “ I babble  with  my 
pebbles.”  The  lost  poem  seems  to  survive  in  “ The  Brook,”  the 
most  artistic,  I think,  of  that  kind  of  Idyl.  To  this  Idyl  series  many 
were  added  in  later  volumes,  such  as  “ The  First  Quarrel,”  “ The 
Sisters,”  “ The  Village  Wife,”  “ The  Spinster’s  Sweet-’arts,”  “ The 
Children’s  Hospital,”  and  “ Rizpah,”  among  the  strongest  of  the 
series. 

In  this  series  Idylic  Poetry  was  raised  to  a height  after  which  it 
had  never  before  aspired.  In  most  of  the  old  Idyls,  and  the  modern 
imitations  of  them,  a couple  of  shepherds  piped  their  loves  in  rivalry. 
One  of  them  gained  his  prize,  and  thanked  Faunus ; another  lost  it, 
as  he  had  already  lost  the  treacherous  object  of  his  affections,  and 
went  home  seriously  distressed  but  not  without  hope  of  “ better  luck 
the  next  time.”  There  was  in  them  no  attempt  at  descriptive  poetry : 
the  trees  and  the  pastures  were  generally  as  like  each  other  as  sheep 
is  like  sheep.  It  was  otherwise  with  these  new  Idyls.  In  them  there 
was  room  for  the  whole  range  of  human  affections,  passions  and 
interests ; and  their  descriptive  passages  delineated  nature  in  all  her 
moods  and  aspects,  the  humblest  as  well  as  the  greatest.  Had  those 
poems  included  nothing  but  their  descriptive  portions  they  would  hence 
still  have  possessed  a great  charm  : but  they  were  yet  more  remarkable 
for  the  dramatic  skill  with  whicn  the  characters  were  discriminated, 
whether  they  belonged  to  the  cultured  or  the  humbler  classes  of  society. 
How  unlike  are  the  self-satisfied  and  harmless  babbler  of  “ Philip’s 
Farm,”  and  the  sturdy  yeoman  who  starves  his  son  because  he  will 
not  marry  Dora,  and  who  later  weeps  over  that  son’s  orphan  child  l 
How  different  from  both  is  that  Northern  farmer  of  “ the  old  style,” 
with  a heart  hard  as  a stone,  and  a mind  that  seems  but  animated 
matter,  and  yet  with  a single  spot  of  tenderness  in  him,  one  for  the 
soil  itself,  from  which  he  seems  to  have  risen  full-grown,  on  which 
he  has  laboured  so  long,  and  over  which  he  cannot  bear  that  the 
new-fangled  steam-plough  and  the  hiss  of  the  “ kettle  ” should  ever 
pass  ! Many  a year  before  Tennyson  wrote  drama,  his  Idyls  had 
proved  that  in  his  poetic  gift  there  lived  a latent  but  admirable 
dramatic  insight. 

The  volume  of  1842  was  welcomed  not  only  with  gratitude  for 
all  that  it  bestowed,  but  as  an  augury  of  gifts  greater  yet  sure  to  follow 


APPENDIX. 


5” 


whenever  a genius  so  potent  and  so  various  measured  itself  with  a 
theme  worthy  of  it,  and  capable  of  testing  all  its  powers.  That 
augury  was  fulfilled  by  the  publication  of  “ In  Memoriam  ” and  the 
“ Idylls  of  the  King.”  “ In  Memoriam  ” showed  how  great  a thing 
man’s  love  is,  by  revealing  the  greatness  of  that  love,  that  grief  and 
that  deliverance  from  grief,  of  which  it  is  capable.  The  “ Idylls  of 
the  King,”  more  of  a complete  great  Epic  than  any  of  the  great  Epics, 
showed  how  high  is  that  aim  which  every  commonwealth  of  men  is 
bound  to  propose  to  itself ; and  it  showed  not  less  that  that  high  aim, 
political  at  once  and  spiritual,  when  frustrated,  owes  its  doom  not 
to  mischance,  or  external  violence  chiefly,  but  to  moral  evil  that  saps 
the  State’s  foundations. 


(P.  487.)  Reminiscences  by  Thomas  Wilson  and 
William  Allingham. 

1863-64. 


Mr  Wilson  writes : 

We  used  frequently  to  walk  together  with  the  boys,  sometimes 
drawing  Mrs  Tennyson  in  her  little  four-wheeled  carriage  along  the 
Downs,  towards  the  Needles,  through  Maiden’s  Croft  over  the  little 
rustic  bridge  across  the  lane,  where  sometimes  inquisitive  strangers  used 
to  lie  in  wait  to  catch  a sight  of  the  Poet. 

Maiden’s  Croft  reminds  me  of  Mr  Tennyson’s  resentment  of  Mr 
Ruskin’s  criticising  his  line  in  “ Maud  ” as  a “ pathetic  fallacy  ” : 

And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

“ Why,”  he  said,  “ the  very  day  I wrote  it,  I saw  the  daisies  rosy  in 
Maiden’s  Croft,  and  thought  of  enclosing  one  to  Ruskin  labelled  ‘ A 
pathetic  fallacy.’  ” I remember  asking  him  if  unselfishness  was  the 
essence  of  virtue?  his  reply  was  “ Certainly.” 

Not  unfrequently  I used  to  have  evening  talks  with  him  on  the  way 
up  to  bed,  looking  at  the  many  pictures  that  adorned  the  staircase  : 
these  he  said  he  looked  at  far  more  frequently  than  pictures  in  the 
room.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  he  was  holding  a candle  to 
examine  some  book  or  picture  (for  he  was  very  near-sighted),  his  wavy 
dark  hair  took  fire  ; I was  for  putting  it  out : “ Oh,  never  mind,”  he  said, 
ic  it  depends  upon  chance  burnings.” 

He  spoke  of  “ the  wind  torturing  the  roof,”  and  used  often  to  mount 
outside  the  roof  from  his  attic-chamber,  to  admire  the  moonlight,  and 


512 


APPENDIX. 


the  sound  of  the  breakers  in  the  Bay.  He  was  so  short-sighted  that  the 
moon,  without  a glass,  seemed  to  him  like  a shield  across  the  sky1. 

He  came  into  my  room  one  day  looking  for  any  new  book  to  feed 
upon : he  took  down  one  by  Stevenson  called  Praying  and  Working , 
an  account  of  German  Ragged  Schools ; he  told  me  afterwards  he  had 
read  it  with  great  pleasure ; he  was  keen  to  get  De  Morgan’s  From 
Matter  to  Spirit. 

On  Lionel’s  birthday  we  acted  a little  Play  or  Charade:  the  first 
scene,  to  represent  the  word  ‘ lion,’  was  the  interlude  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisbe  from  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ; the  servants  were  admitted  to 
the  performance,  and  laughed  heartily  at  Wall,  the  Moon,  and  other 
grotesque  characters.  Tennyson  remarked  that  this  confirmed  his 
opinion  of  the  enduring  popularity  of  broad  Comedy  in  England. 

Tennyson  always  said  that  his  childhood  had  been  at  times  very 
unhappy ; and  his  desire  was  to  make  Hallam  and  Lionel’s  childhood 
as  happy  as  possible  : he  encouraged  Lionel,  who  had  some  talent  for 
drawing,  to  copy  natural  objects. 

He  used  sometimes  to  read  aloud  in  the  evening,  in  a deep  sus- 
tained sonorous  voice.  I remember  little  Hallam  warning  me  not  to 
trouble  him  when  he  was  smoking  his  first  morning  pipe,  when  he  used 
to  think  that  his  best  inspirations  came. 

At  the  time  of  these  Recollections  I was  not  in  good  health,  some- 
times suffering  from  fits  of  melancholy ; on  one  such  occasion  he  said, 
“If  you  wish  to  kill  yourself  don’t  do  it  here  : go  to  Yarmouth  and  do 
it  decently”;  on  another  occasion  he  said,  “Just  go  grimly  on.”  I 
once  spoke  of  Christ  as  an  example  of  failure.  “ Do  you,”  said  he, 
“ call  that  failure  which  has  altered  the  belief  and  the  social  relations  of 
the  whole  world?” 


Mr  Allingham  writes  : 

Oct.  $rd,  1863.  Saturday.  We  drove  to  Farringford  (Mrs  A., 
Clough  and  W.  A.),  picking  up  on  the  way  Pollock  and  his  son. 
Drawing-room  tea,  Mrs  Tennyson  in  white,  I can  sometimes  scarcely 
hear  her  low  tones.  Mrs  Cameron,  dark,  short,  sharp-eyed,  one  hears 
very  distinctly.  I wandered  to  the  book-table  where  Tennyson  joined 
me.  He  praised  Worsley’s  Odyssey.  In  a book  of  Latin  versions  from 
his  own  poetry  he  found  some  slips  in  Lord  Lyttelton’s  Latin  Cytherea 
Venus , etc.  “Did  I find  Lymington  very  dull?”  I told  him  that 

1 He  said  that  he  never  saw  the  two  end  stars  in  the  tail  of  “Ursa  Major” 
separate.  To  his  eyes  they  intersected  one  another. 


APPENDIX. 


5T3 


since  coming  there  I had  heard  Cardinal  Wiseman  lecture  (on  Self- 
culture), Spurgeon  preach,  and  seen  Tom  Sayers  spar.  “More  than  I 
have,”  he  remarked.  In  taking  leave  he  said,  “ Come  to-morrow.” 

Oct.  4 th . I walked  over  alone  to  Farringford,  found  first  Mrs 
Tennyson,  the  two  boys  and  their  tutor.  Tennyson  at  luncheon. 
“What  do  we  know  of  the  feelings  of  insects?  Nothing.”  Tennyson 
takes  me  upstairs  to  his  “ den  ” on  the  top  storey,  and  higher,  up  a 
ladder,  to  the  leads.  He  often  comes  up  here  at  night  to  look  at  the 
heavens.. ..Then  we  went  down  and  walked  about  the  grounds,  looking 
at  a cedar,  a huge  fern,  an  Irish  yew.  The  dark  cedar  in  “ Maud,” 
“sighing  for  Lebanon,”  he  got  at  Swainston,  Sir  John  Simeon’s.. ..We 
went  down  the  garden,  past  a large  fig-tree  growing  in  the  open,  “ like  a 
breaking  wave.”  Contradictions  from  him  are  no  way  disagreeable  : 
and  so  to  the  farmyard.  “ Have  you  a particular  feeling  about  a farm- 
yard?” he  asked,  “a  special  delight  in  it?  I have.  The  first  time  I 
read  Shakespeare  was  on  a hay-stack,  Othello.  I said,  ‘This  man’s 
overrated.’  Boys  can’t  understand  Shakespeare.”  We  spoke  a little  of 
the  Shakespeare  “ Tercentenary,”  next  year.  “ Most  people  pronounce 
‘Arbutus  ’ wrong,  with  the  second  syllable  long.  ‘ Clematis  ' too,  which 
should  be  ‘ Cle-matis.’  ” In  the  passage,  or  somewhere  near  it,  I 
noticed  a dusty  phial  hanging  up  with  some  dried  brown  stuff  in  it  (left 
by  the  last  owners  of  Farringford).  “It  is  a Lar,”  he  said,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eyes.  “And  what  else  is  it?  ” I asked.  “An  old  bottle 
of  Ipecacuanha.”  We  looked  at  the  great  magnolia  stretching  up  to 
the  roof ; then  into  the  hall  and  saw  some  fossils.  “ Man  is  so  small ! ” 
he  said,  “ but  a fly  on  the  wheel.”  Mrs  Clough  was  in  the  house,  and 
she  and  I now  departed,  Tennyson  coming  with  us  as  far  as  the  little 
south  postern  opening  on  the  lane.. ..In  parting  he  said  to  me,  “We 
shall  see  you  sometimes?”  which  gladdened  me. 

Later.  We  (W.  A.  and  Rev.  W.  Barnes,  the  Dorsetshire  poet) 
drove  in  a fly  to  Farringford,  where  Tennyson,  Mrs  Tennyson,  Miss 
Tennyson,  met  us  in  the  hall.  Tennyson  and  Barnes  at  once  on  easy 
terms,  having  simple  poetic  minds  and  mutual  good-will.  Talk  of 
“ Ancient  Britons,  barrows,  roads,”  etc.  I to  upper  room  to  dress, 
Tennyson  comes  in  to  me,  and  we  go  down  together.  Dinner  : stories 
of  Ghosts  and  Dreams.  To  drawing-room  as  usual,  where  Tennyson 
had  his  port.  Barnes  no  wine.  Tennyson  said,  “Modern  fame  is 
nothing : I’d  rather  have  an  acre  of  land.  I shall  go  down,  down  ! 
I’m  up  now.  Action  and  reaction.”  Tennyson  went  upstairs  by  him- 
self. Tea.  Enter  Mrs  Cameron  (in  a funny  red  open-work  shawl)  with 
two  of  her  boys.  Tennyson  reappeared,  and  Mrs  Cameron  showed  a 
small  firework  toy  called  “ Pharaoh’s  Serpents,”  a kind  of  pastille  which 
when  lighted  twists  about  in  a wormlike  shape.  Mrs  Cameron  said 

33 


T.  I. 


5H 


APPENDIX. 


they  were  poisonous,  and  forbade  us  all  to  touch.  Tennyson  in 
defiance  put  out  his  hand.  “ Don’t  touch  ’em,”  shrieked  Mrs  Cameron. 
“You  shan’t,  Alfred  ! ” But  Alfred  did.  “Wash  your  hands  then!” 
But  Alfred  wouldn’t,  and  rubbed  his  moustache  instead,  enjoying  Mrs 
Cameron’s  agonies.  Then  she  said  to  him,  “ Will  you  come  to-morrow 
to  be  photographed?”  He,  very  emphatically,  “No!”  Then  she 
turned  to  me,  “You  left  a Great  Poet  out  of  Nightingale  Valley , and 
have  been  repenting  ever  since  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  eh?”  She 
meant  Henry  Taylor.  I tried  to  say  that  the  volume  was  not  a 
collection  of  specimens  of  poets,  but  she  did  not  listen.  Then  she  said 
graciously,  “ Come  to-morrow  and  you  shall  be  taken,  and  (whispers) 
you  shall  see  Madonna,  eh?”  Madonna,  otherwise  called  Island  Mary, 
being  one  of  her  pretty  servants  whom  she  photographs  as  the  Virgin, 
etc.  This  eh  ! and  hm  ! makes  a droll  little  finish  to  many  of  Mrs 
Cameron’s  sentences.  She  is  extremely  clever,  and  good-natured. 
Tennyson  and  I went  out  to  the  porch  with  Mrs  Cameron,  where  her 
donkey-chair  was  waiting  in  the  moonlight.  We  looked  at  some  of  her 
own  photographs  on  the  walls,  and  at  one  of  Henry  Taylor.  Tennyson 
said  to  one  of  the  Cameron  boys,  “All  your  mother’s  geese  are  swans 
and  all  her  Taylors  are  gods!”  “What’s  that?”  says  Mrs  Cameron, 
who  only  heard  part ; upon  which  Tennyson  repeated  the  words, 
introducing  them  with  “ Your  son  says,”  at  which  we  all  laughed, 
whether  the  lady  enjoyed  it  or  not.  But  she  was  candid  enough  on  her 
part.  Tennyson  asked  her  would  she  photograph  Mr  Barnes?  But 
she  said  “ No.”  She  objected  to  the  top  of  his  head. 

Tennyson  now  took  Barnes  and  me  to  his  top  room.  “ Darwinism, 
Man  from  Ape,  would  that  really  make  any  difference?”  “Time  is 
nothing  (said  T.)  : are  we  not  all  part  of  Deity?  ” “ Pantheism,”  hinted 
Barnes,  who  was  not  at  ease  in  this  sort  of  speculation.  “ Well,”  says 
Tennyson,  “ I think  I believe  in  Pantheism,  of  a sort.”  Barnes  to  bed, 
Tennyson  and  I up  ladder  to  the  roof  and  looked  at  Orion  ; then  to  my 
room,  where  more  talk.  He  liked  Barnes,  he  said,  “ but  he  is  not 
accustomed  to  strong  views  theologic.”  We  talked  of  Browning,  for 
whom  Tennyson  had  a very  strong  personal  regard.  “ I can’t  under- 
stand how  he  should  care  for  my  poetry.  His  new  poem  has  15,000 
lines:  there’s  copiousness  ! Goodnight.”  Bed  about  1. 


APPENDIX. 


515 


(P.  487.)  Hints  for  “ Enoch  Arden"  from  Edward  Fitzgerald 
(1862),  in  a letter  to  my  mother. 

How  is  it  that  your  note  has  been  unanswered  this  month  or  more  ? 
Why,  a fortnight  of  the  month  I didn’t  see  it  at  all : being  away  with  a 
sister  in  Norfolk;  and  the  remaining  fortnight?  Why  I kept  thinking 
I might  tell  you  something  about  the  fishing  questions  you  ask  me  : I 
mean,  about  telling  you  “anything”  about  fishermen,  etc.  Well,  some- 
how, what  little  I know  on  such  matters  won’t  turn  up  on  demand  : 
perhaps  it  would  undemanded  if  you  and  A.  T.  were  in  my  boat  one 
summer  day  on  this  poor  river,  or  plunging  over  its  bar  into  the  German 
Seas.  Ah  ! Alfred  should  never  have  left  his  old  county  with  its 
Mablethorpe  sea.  As  to  the  definite  questions  you  ask  on  the  subject, 
I can  only  answer  for  the  customs  in  such  matters  hereabout. 

1.  There  is  no  apprenticeship  to  fishing:  anyone  takes  anyone  who 
comes  handy,  etc.,  even  in  the  Deep-Sea  fishing,  i.e.  not  along  the 
coast,  but  out  to  the  Dogger  bank,  Scotland,  Ireland,  etc.  (for  cod-fish) ; 
anyone  may  go  who  can  get  a berth.  Only  a little  while  ago,  a lad  was 
telling  me  at  Aldbro’  how  he  first  went,  as  a boy  of  13  : he  hid  himself 
in  the  stern  of  the  boat  that  was  pushing  off  to  the  smack : and  when 
they  were  well  off  shore,  he  pushed  up  his  head  from  under  ropes,  etc., 
and  the  “ Master  ” only  said,  “ What ! is  thee  that  devil  of  a boy?  You’ll 
be  glad  enough  to  be  at  home  again  before  along  ! ” and  so  took  him 
out  to  sea ; and  now  the  lad  has  his  14 s.  a week  (grown  to  19  years  old) 
like  the  rest. 

2.  “May  fishermen  act  as  pilots,  or  must  they  be  of  a Guild  of 
pilots?”  Yes,  properly  : no  one  is  authorized  to  become  a pilot,  unless 
he  has  served  his  time  as  mate  in  a square-rigged  vessel  (i.e.  nothing 
under  a brig:  even  a schooner  won’t  do).  When  he  has  so  served  a 
certain  time,  he  has  to  pass  examinations  before  (I  think)  the  Trinity 
Board  and  so  is  admitted  or  not  to  be  of  the  Guild.  But,  when  all  the 
authorized  pilots  in  a place  are  exhausted  (as  will  happen  when  many 
foreign  ships  pass,  etc.),  then  a fisherman  or  other  ^authorized  sailor 
will  go  : being  called  a “Brummagem  Pilot.” 

Oh  dear  ! this  is  very  learned,  very  useless,  I dare  say.  But  you  ask 
me  and  I tell  my  best.  I have  been  almost  tempted  to  write  you  out 
some  morsels  of  Dampier’s  Voyages  which  I copied  out  for  myself : so 
fine  as  they  are  in  their  way  I think,  but  they  would  be  no  use  unless 
A.  T.  fell  upon  them  by  chance  : for,  of  all  horses,  Pegasus  least  likes 
to  be  dragged  to  drink.  I love  Captain  Cook  too  : what  fine  English 
his,  in  the  Johnsonian  days  ! I remember,  10  years  ago,  telling  Alfred 
at  Brighton  of  some  poor  little  verses  found  in  the  Prayer-Book  of  a 


APPENDIX. 


516 

seafaring  son  of  our  old  coachman,  who  died  at  sea : and  Alfred  took 
the  pipe  out  of  his  blessed  old  lips  to  remurmur  one,  which  Thackeray 
pooh-poohed.  Along  the  coast  here  are  many  peculiar  and  fine  Scandi- 
navian words,  which  are  not  registered  even  by  our  provincial  glossarists 
(who  have  dealt  chiefly  with  the  inland  husbandman  people) . 

Well,  I shan’t  go  on  more  about  this  unless  you  desire  some  more. 
About  the  photographs  of  A.  T.,  thank  you  for  them  : as  you  think  one 
of  them  very  good,  I have  no  doubt  it  is  so  : but  what  becomes  of  the 
eyes?  I had  seen  some  bigger  ones,  which  made  a sort  of  Rembrandt 
Burgomaster  of  him  : but  in  reality  I don’t  much  love  photographs  : 
though  I asked  you  for  one,  because  I knew  they  were  always  going  on : 
and  I sincerely  thank  you  for  sending  me  (I  dare  say)  the  best. 

This  is  vile  weak  scribbling,  after  two  glasses  of  b-r-n-d-y  and  water 
too  (Sunday  evening) . 

I saw  (in  Norfolk)  that  Yarrell  does  give  that  human  note  to  the 
plover : so  I dare  say  he  is  right,  and  my  friends  on  the  river  here 
wrong.  I see  too  that  Yarrell  writes  the  word  “ Curlew  ” as  French 
“ Couvre  lieu  ” {I  think),  supposed  to  be  from  its  cry.  (Query.  Will 
A.  T.  say  anything  better  than  an  Aldbro’  fisherman  said  of  a boat  — 
(Humph)  “ Ah  ! — She  go  like  a Wiolin,  she  do  ! ”) 

Some  Summer  — some  Summer  day  send  the  old  wretch  here,  where 
nobody  scarce  knows  his  name  (don’t  be  angry,  Mrs  A.  T.),  though  a 
duller  place  is  not ! but  an  ugly  river 

(and  a dirty  sea) 

(and  E.  F.  G.) 

which  is  my  poem  Q.  E.  D. 

(P.S.  Leave  the  scrap  of  Cook  on  the  floor,  in  Alfred’s  way  : don’t 
give  it  him.) 


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